

Book 

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JUDY 


‘ 







“I Think I Will Go After All” 





























JUDY 


BY 

TEMPLE BAILEY 

\\ 


Author of 

“The Dim Lantern” “The Trumpeter Swan” “The 

Tin Soldier” etc . 


Illustrated by ELIZABETH PILSBRY 

* * 

) -> 

> » > 


THE PENN PUBLISHING 
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA 

1923 



COPYRIGHT 1907 
by Little, Brown & Company 


COPYRIGHT 
1923 BY 
THE PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 



Judy 

Manufacturing 

Plant 

Camden, N. J. 



Made in the U. S. A. 

OCT 12 1923 


©C1A760308 

'W 4 f 



To my father 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

The Judge and Judy . 

• 


PAGE 

1 

II. 

Anne Goes to Town 

• 


. 13 

III. 

In the Judge’s Garden 

• 


. 28 

IV. 

“ Your Grandmother, My Dear ” 

. 41 

V. 

Too Many Cooks . 

• 


. 48 

VI. 

A Rain and a Runaway 

• 


. 57 

VII. 

Tommy Tolliver : Seaman 

• 


. 71 

VIII. 

A White Sunday . 

• 


. 84 

IX. 

A Blue Monday . 

• 


. 97 

X. 

Mistress Mary 

• 


. Ill 

XI. 

The Princess and the Lily Maid 

. 124 

XII. 

Lordly Launcelot 

• 


. 134 

XIII. 

A Fortune and a Fright 

• 


. 146 

XIV. 

A Precious Pussy Cat 

• 


. 163 

XV. 

The Spanish Coins 

• 


. 180 

XVI. 

The Wind and the Waves 

• 


. 193 

XVII. 

Moods and Models 

• 


. 208 

XVIII. 

Judy Keeps a Promise 

• 


. 218 

XIX. 

Perkins Cleans the Silver 


. 229 

XX. 

Anne Hears a Burglar 

• 


. 239 

XXI. 

Captain Judy 

• 


. 245 

XXII. 

The Castaways . 

• 


. 255 

XXLLI. 

In a Silver Boat 

• 


. 261 


Vll 






Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


XXIV. “ Home Is the Sailor from the Sea ” 

XXV. Launcelot Buys a Cow 

XXVI. Judy Plays Lady Bountiful 
XXVII. The Summer Ends . , . 


271 

282 

294 

308 



Illustrations 


“I Think I Will Go After All” . . Frontispiece 

PAGE 

“Aren’t You Coming Up?” .... 26 

Anne Tied On Her Hat and Went Out into the 
Garden.99 

“Hush,” said the Gypsy. “I Must Say What I 
Must Say” ....... 156 

She Gazed Forlornly Over the Empty Wateis . 261 





Judy 


CHAPTER I 

THE JUDGE AND JUDY 

T here was a plum-tree in the orchard, 
all snow and ebony against a sky 
of sapphire. 

Becky Sharp, perched among the fragrant 
blossoms, crooned soft nothings to herself. 
Under the tree little Anne lay at full length 
on the tender green sod and dreamed day¬ 
dreams. 

“ Belinda,’’ she said to her great white cat, 
“ Belinda, if we could fly like Becky Sharp, 
we would all go to Egypt and eat our lunch on 
the top of the pyramids.” 

Belinda, keeping a wary eye on a rusty red 
robin on a near-by stump, waved her tail con¬ 
versationally. 

“ They used to worship cats in Egypt, Be- 




2 


JUDY 


linda,” Anne went on, drowsily, “ and when 
they died they preserved them in sweet spices 
and made mummies of them — ” 

But Belinda had lost interest. The rusty 
red robin was busy with a worm, and she saw 
her chance. 

As she sneaked across the grass, Anne sat 
up, “ I’m ashamed of you, Belinda,’" she said. 
“ Becky, go bring her back! ” 

The tame crow fluttered from the tree with 
a squawk and straddled awkwardly to the 
stump, scaring the robin into flight, and beat¬ 
ing an inky wing against Belinda’s white¬ 
ness. 

Belinda hit back viciously, but Becky flew 
over her head, and by several well-delivered 
nips sent the white cat mewing to the shelter 
of her mistress’ arms. 

“ I suppose you can’t help it, Belinda,” 
said Anne, as she cuddled her, “ but it’s horrid 
of you to catch birds, horrid, Belinda.” 

Belinda curled down into Anne’s blue 
gingham lap, and Becky Sharp climbed once 
more to the limb of the plum-tree, from which 
she presently sounded a discordant note. 



THE JUDGE AND JUDY 


3 


Anne raised her head. “ There is some 
one coming,” she said, and rolled Belinda out 
of her lap and stood up. “ Who is it, Becky ? ” 

But Becky, having given the alarm, blinked 
solemnly down at her mistress, and said 
nothing. 

“It’s Judge Jameson’s horse,” Anne in¬ 
formed her pets, “ and there’s a girl with him, 
with a white hat on, and they’ll stay to lunch, 
and there isn’t a thing but bread and milk, 
and little grandmother is cleaning the attic.” 

She picked up her hat and flew through the 
orchard with Belinda a white streak behind 
her, and Becky Sharp in the rear, a pursuing 
black shadow. 

“ Little grandmother, little grandmother,” 
called Anne, when she reached a small gray 
house at the edge of the orchard. 

At a tiny window set in the angle of the 
slanting roof, a head appeared — a head 
tied up just now in a clean white cloth, which 
framed a rosy, wrinkled face. 

“ Little grandmother,” cried Anne, breath¬ 
lessly, “ Judge Jameson is coming, and there 
isn’t anything for lunch.” 



4 


JUDY 


“ There’s plenty of fresh bread and milk,” 
said the little grandmother calmly. 

“ But we can’t give the Judge just that,” 
said Anne. 

“ It isn’t what you give, it’s the spirit you 
offer it in,” said the little grandmother, re¬ 
provingly. “ It won’t be the first time that 
Judge Jameson has eaten bread and milk at 
my table, Anne, and it won’t be the last,” and 
with that the little grandmother untied the 
white cloth, displaying a double row of soft 
gray curls that made her look like a charming, 
if elderly, cherub. 

“ You go and meet him, Anne,” she said, 
“ and I’ll come right down.” 

So Anne and Belinda and Becky Sharp wen! 
down the path to meet the carriage. 

On each side of the path the spring blos¬ 
soms were coming up, tulips and crocuses 
and hyacinths. Against the background of 
the gray house, an almond bush flung its 
branches of pink and white, and the grass was 
violet-starred. 

“ Isn’t that a picture, Judy,” said the Judge 
to the girl beside him, as they drove up, “ that 



THE JUDGE AND JUDY 


5 


little old house, with the flowers and Anne and 
her pets ? ” 

But Judy was looking at Anne with an up¬ 
lifting of her dark, straight eyebrows. 

“ She must be a queer girl,” she said. 

“ This is my granddaughter, Judy Jame¬ 
son,” was the Judge’s introduction, when he 
had shaken hands with Anne. “ She is going 
to live with me now, and I want you two to be 
great friends.” 

To little country Anne, Judy seemed like 
a being from another world; she had never 
seen anything like the white hat with its 
wreath of violets, the straight white linen 
frock, the white cloth coat, and the low ribbon- 
tied shoes, and the unconscious air with which 
all these beautiful things were worn filled her 
with wonder. Why, a new ribbon on her own 
hat always set her happy heart a-flutter! 

She gave Judy a shy welcome, and Judy 
responded with a self-possession that made 
Anne’s head whirl. 

“ My dear Judge,” said the little grand¬ 
mother from the doorway, “ I am glad you 
came. Come right in.” 



6 


JUDY 


“You are like your grandmother, my dear,” 
she told Judy, “ she and I were girls together, 
you know.” 

Judy looked at the little, bent figure in the 
faded purple calico. “ Oh, were you,” she 
said, indifferently, “ I didn’t know that 
grandmother ever lived in the country before 
she was married.” 

“ She didn’t,” explained the little grand¬ 
mother, “ but I lived in town, and we went to 
our first parties together, and became engaged 
at the same time, and we both of us married 
men from this county and came up here — ” 

“ And lived happy ever after,” finished the 
Judge, with a smile on his fine old face, “ like 
the people in your fairy books, Judy.” 

“ I don’t read fairy books,” said Judy, with 
a little curve of her upper lip. 

“ Oh,” said Anne, “ don’t you, don’t you 
ever read them, Judy ? ” 

There was such wonder, almost horror, in 
her tone that Judy laughed. “ Oh, I don’t 
read much,” she said. “ There is so much 
else to do, and books are a bore.” 

Anne looked at her with a little puzzled 



THE JUDGE AND JUDY 


7 


stare. “ Don't you like books — really ? ” she 
asked, incredulously. 

“ I hate them/' said Judy calmly. 

Before Anne could recover from the shock 
of such a statement, the Judge waved the 
young people away. 

“ Run along, run along,” he ordered, “ I 
want to talk to Mrs. Batcheller, “ you show 
Judy around, a bit, Anne.” 

“ Anne can set the table for lunch,” said the 
little grandmother. “ Of course you’ll stay, 
you and Judy. Take Judy with you, Anne.” 

Belinda and Becky Sharp followed the two 
girls into the dining-room. Becky perched 
herself on the wide window-sill in the sunshine, 
and Belinda sat at Judy’s feet and blinked 
up at her. 

“ Belinda is awfully spoiled,” said Anne, to 
break the stiffness, as she spread the table with 
a thin old cloth, “ but she is such a dear we 
can’t help it.” 

Judy drew her skirts away from Belinda’s 
patting paw. 66 I hate cats,” she said, with 
decision. 

Anne’s lips set in a firm line, but she did not 



8 


JUDY 


say anything. Presently, however, she looked 
down at Belinda, who rubbed against the 
table leg, and as she met the affectionate glance 
of the cat’s green orbs, her own eyes said: “ I 
am not going to like her, Belinda,” and Be¬ 
linda said, “ Purr-up,” in polite acquies¬ 
cence. 

Judy had taken off her hat and coat, and 
she sat a slender white figure in the old rocker. 
Around her eyes were dark shadows of weari¬ 
ness, and she was very pale. 

“ How good the air feels,” she murmured, 
and laid her head back against the cushion 
with a sigh. 

Anne’s heart smote her. “ Aren’t you feel¬ 
ing well, Judy ? ” she asked, timidly. 

“ I’m never well,” Judy said, slowly. “ I’m 
tired, tired to death, Anne.” 

Anne set the little blue bowls at the places, 
softly. She had never felt tired in her life, 
nor sick. “ Wouldn’t you like a glass of 
milk ? ” she asked, “ and not wait until lunch 
is ready? It might do you good.” 

“ I hate milk,” said Judy. 

Anne sat down helplessly and looked at the 



THE JUDGE AND JUDY 


9 


weary figure opposite. “ I am afraid you 
won’t have much for lunch,” she quavered, at 
last. “ We haven’t anything but bread and 
milk.” 

“ I don’t want any lunch,” said Judy, list¬ 
lessly. “ Don’t worry about me, Anne.” 

But Anne went to the cupboard and brought 
out a precious store of peach preserves, and 
dished them in the little glass saucers that had 
been among her grandmother’s wedding things. 
Then she cut the bread in thin slices and 
brought in a pitcher of milk. 

“ Why don’t you have some flowers on the 
table ? ” said Judy. “ Flowers are better than 
food, any day — ” 

Like a flame the color went over Anne’s fair 
face. “ Oh, do you like flowers, Judy P ” she 
said, joyously. “Do you, Judy?” 

Judy nodded. “ I love them,” she said. 
“ Give me that big blue bowl, Anne, and I’ll 
get you some for the table.” 

“ Wouldn’t you like a vase, Judy ? ” asked 
Anne. “We have a nice red one in the 
parlor.” 

Judy drew her shoulders together in a little 



10 


JUDY 


shiver of distaste. “Oh, no, no,” she shud¬ 
dered, “ this bowl is such a beauty, Anne.” 

“ But it is so old,” said Anne, “ it belonged 
to my great-grandmother.” 

“ That is why it is so beautiful,” said Judy, 
as she went out of the door into the garden. 

When she came in she had filled the bowl 
with yellow T tulips, which, set in the center of 
the table, seemed to radiate sunshine, and to 
glorify the plain little room. “ I should never 
have thought of the tulips, Judy,” exclaimed 
Anne, “ but they look lovely.” 

There was such genuine admiration in the 
tender voice, that Judy looked at Anne for the 
first time with interest — at the plain, straight 
figure in the unfashionable blue gingham, at 
the freckled face, with its tip-tilted nose, and 
at the fair hair hanging in two neat braids far 
below the little girl’s waist. 

“Do you like to live here, Anne?” she 
asked, suddenly. 

Anne, still bending over the tulips, lifted 
two surprised blue eyes. 

“ Of course,” she said. “ Of course I do, 
Judy.” 



THE JUDGE AND JUDY 


11 


“ I hate it,” said Judy. “ I hate the coun¬ 
try, Anne — ” 

And this time she did not express her dislike 
indifferently, but with a swift straightening of 
her slender young body, and a nervous clasping 
«f her thin white fingers. 

“ I hate it,” she said again. 

Anne stood very still by the table. What 
Gould she say to this strange girl who hated so 
many things, and who was staring out 
of the window with drawn brows and com¬ 
pressed red lips ? 

“ Perhaps I like it because it is my home,” 
she said at last, gently. 

Judy caught her breath quickly. “ I am 
never going back to my home, Anne,” she said. 

“ Never, Judy ? ” 

“ No — grandfather says that I am to stay 
here with him — ” There was despair in the 
young voice. 

Anne went over to the window. “ Perhaps 
you will like it after awhile,” she said, hope¬ 
fully, “ the Judge is such a dear.” 

“ I know — ” Judy’s tone was stifled, “ but 
he isn’t — he isn’t my mother — Anne — ” 



n 


JUDY 


For a few minutes there was silence, then 
Judy went on: 

“ You see I nursed mother all through her 
last illness. I was with her every minute — 
and — and — I want her so — I want my 
mother — Anne — ” 

But so self-controlled was she, that though 
her voice broke and her lips trembled, her eyes 
were dry. Anne reached out a plump, timid 
hand, and laid it over the slender one on the 
window-sill. 

“ I haven’t any mother either, Judy,” she 
said, and Judy looked down at her with a 
strange softness in her dark eyes. Suddenly 
she bent her head in a swift kiss, then drew 
back and squared her shoulders. 

“ Don’t let’s talk about it,” she said, 
sharply. “ I can’t stand It — I can’t stand 
it — Anne — ” 

But in spite of the harshness of her tone, 
Anne knew that there was a bond between 
them, and that the bond had been sealed by 
Judy’s kiss. 



CHAPTER II 


ANNE GOES TO TOWN 

G randfather,” said Judy, at the 

lunch-table, “ I want to take Anne 
home with us.” 

A little shiver went up and down Anne’s 
spine. She wasn’t sure whether it would be 
pleasant to go with Judy or not. Judy was so 
different. 

“ I don’t believe Anne could leave Becky 
and Belinda,” laughed the Judge. “ She 
would have to carry her family with her.” 

“ Of course she can leave them,” was 
Judy’s calm assertion, “ and I want her, grand¬ 
father.” 

She said it with the air of a young princess 
wdio is in the habit of having her wishes grat¬ 
ified. The Judge laughed again. 

“ How is it, Mrs. Batcheller ? ” he asked. 
“ May Anne go ? ” 


13 


14 


JUDY 


The little grandmother shook her head. 

“ I don’t often let her leave me,” she said. 

“ But I want her,” said Judy, sharply, and 
at her tone the little grandmother’s back 
stiffened. 

“ Perhaps you do, my dear,” was her quiet 
answer, “ but your wants must wait upon my 
decision.” 

The mild blue eyes met the frowning dark 
ones steadily, and Judy gave in. Much as she 
hated to own it, there was something about 
this little lady in faded calico that forced respect. 

“ Oh,” she said, and sat back in her chair, 
limply. 

The Judge looked anxiously at her disap¬ 
pointed face. 

“ Judy is so lonely," he pleaded, and Mrs. 
Batcheller unbent. 

“ Anne has her lessons.” 

“ But to-morrow is Saturday.” 

“ Well — she may go this time. How long 
do you want her to stay ? ” 

“ Until Sunday night,” said the Judge. 
“ I will bring her back in time for school on 
Monday.” 



ANNE GOES TO TOWN 


15 


Anne went up-stairs in a flutter of excite¬ 
ment. Visits were rare treats in her unevent¬ 
ful life, and she had never stayed at Judge 
Jameson’s overnight, although she had often 
been there to tea, and the great old house had 
seemed the palace beautiful of her dreams. 
But Judy! 

44 She is so different from any girl I have 
ever met,” she explained to the little grand¬ 
mother, who had followed her to her room 
under the eaves, and was packing her bag for 
her. 

“ Different ? How ? * ’ 

“Well, she isn’t like Nannie May or Amelia 
Morrison.” 

“ I should hope not,” said the little grand¬ 
mother with severity. “Nan is a tomboy, 
and Amelia hasn’t a bit of spirit — not a bit, 
Anne.” 

Anne changed the subject, skilfully. “ Do 
you like Judy? ” she questioned. 

“ She is very much spoiled,” said the little 
grandmother, slowly, “ a very spoiled child, 
indeed. Her mother began it, and the Judge 
will keep it up. But Judy is like her grand- 



16 


JUDY 


mother at the same age, Anne, and her grand¬ 
mother turned out to be a charming woman — 
it's in the blood.” 

“ She says she is going to live with the 
Judge.” Anne was folding her best blue rib¬ 
bons, with quite a grown-up air. 

“Yes. I have never told you, Anne, but 
the Judge’s son was in the navy, and four years 
ago he went for a cruise and never came back.” 

“ Was he drowned ? ” 

“ He was washed overboard during a storm, 
and every one except Judy believes that he was 
drowned. Even Judy’s mother believed it in 
time, but Judy won’t. She thinks he will 
come back, and so she has lived on in her old 
home by the sea, with a cousin of her father’s 
for a companion — always with the hope that 
he will come back. But the cousin was mar¬ 
ried in the winter, and so Judy is to live with 
the Judge. He has always wanted it that way 
— but Judy clung desperately to the life in the 
old house by the sea. The Judge will spoil 
her — he can’t deny her anything.” 

“ What pretty things she has,” said Anne, 
looking down distastefully at the simple gown 



ANNE GOES TO TOWN 


17 


and neat but plain garments that the little 
grandmother was packing into a shiny black 
bag. 

The little grandmother gave her a quick 
look. “ Never mind, dearie,” she said, “ just 
remember that you are a gentlewoman by 
birth, and try to be sweet and loving, and 
don’t worry about the clothes.” 

But as she tied the shabby old hat with its 
faded roses on the fair little head, her ow T n old 
eyes were wistful. “ I wish I could give you 
pretty things, my little Anne,” she whispered. 

Anne gave a remorseful cry. “ I don’t 
mind, little grandmother,” she said, “ I don’t 
really,” and for a moment her warm young 
cheek lay against the soft old one. 

A tiny mirror opposite reflected the two 
faces. “ How much we look alike,” cried 
Anne, noticing it for the first time. Then she 
sighed. “ But my hair doesn’t curl like yours, 
little grandmother,” and in that lament was 
voiced the greatest trial, that had, as yet, come 
to Anne. 

“ Neither does Judy’s,” said Mrs. Batcheller, 
and Anne brightened up, but when she went 



18 


JUDY 


down-stairs and saw Judy’s bronze locks 
giving out wonderful lights where they were 
looped up with a broad black ribbon she 
sighed again. 

When the carriage drove around, Anne 
caught Belinda up in her arms. 

44 Good-bye, pussy cat, pussy cat,” she 
cried, 44 take care of grandmother, and don’t 
catch any birds.” 

Belinda crooned a loving song, and tucked 
her pretty head under her little mistress’ chin. 

44 You’re a dear, Belinda,” said Anne , 44 and 
so is Becky,” and at the sound of her name the 
tame crow flew to Anne’s shoulder and gave 
her a pecking kiss. 

44 Oh, come on,” said Judy, impatiently, 
and the Judge lifted the shiny bag and put it 
on the front seat; then they waved their hands 
to the little grandmother and were off. 

It was five miles to town, but the ride did 
not seem long to Anne. She pointed out all 
the places of interest to Judy. 

44 That is where I go to school,” she said, as 
they passed a low white building at the cross¬ 
roads, and later when the setting sun shone red 



ANNE GOES TO TOWN 


19 


and gold on two low glass hothouses set in the 
corner of a scraggly lawn, she explained their 
use to Judy. 

“ That’s where Launcelot Bart raises 
violets,” she said. 

“ What a funny name ! ” was Judy’s careless 
rejoinder. 

“ Launcelot is a funny boy,” said Anne, 
“ but I think you would like him, Judy.” 

“ I hate boys,” said Judy, and settled back 
in the corner of the carriage with a bored air. 

But Anne was eager in the defence of her 
friend. “ Launcelot isn’t like most boys,” 
she protested, “he is sixteen, and he lived 
abroad until his father lost all his money, and 
they had to come out here, and they were 
awfully poor until Launcelot began to raise 
violets, and now he is making lots of money.” 

“ Well, I don’t want to meet him,” said 
Judy, indifferently, “ he is sure to be in the 
way —all boys are in the way — ” 

Anne did not talk much after that; but 
when they reached the Judge’s great red brick 
mansion, with the white pillars and with wis¬ 
taria drooping in pale mauve clusters from the 



20 


JUDY 


upper porch, she could not restrain her en¬ 
thusiasm. 

“ What a lovely old place it is, Judy, what a 
lovely, lovely place.” 

But Judy’s clenched fist beat against the 
cushions. “ No, it isn’t, it isn’t,” she declared 
in a tense tone, so low that the Judge could not 
hear, “ it isn’t lovely. It’s too big and dark 
and lonely, Anne — and it isn’t lovely at all.” 

As the Judge helped them out, there came 
over Anne suddenly a wave of homesickness. 
Judy was so hard to get along with, and the 
Judge was so stately, and after Judy’s words, 
even the old mansion seemed to frown on her. 
Back there in the quiet fields was the little 
gray house, back there was peace and love and 
contentment, and with all her heart she wished 
that she might fly to the shelter of the little 
grandmother’s welcoming arms. 

Perhaps something of her feeling showed in 
her face, for as they went up-stairs, Judy said 
repentantly, “ Don’t mind me, Anne. I’m 
not a bit nice sometimes — but — but — I 
was born that way, I guess, and I can’t help 
it.” 



ANNE GOES TO TOWN 


21 


Anne smiled faintly. She wondered what 
the little grandmother would have said to such 
a confession of weakness. “ There isn’t any¬ 
thing in this world that you can’t help,” the 
dear old lady would say, “ and if you’re born 
with a bad temper, why, that’s all the more 
reason you should choose to live with a good 
one/’ 

But Anne was not there to read moral lec¬ 
tures to her friend, and in fact as Judy opened 
the door of her room, the little country girl 
forgot everything but the scene before her. 

“ Oh, Judy, Judy,” she cried, “ how did 
you make it look like this ? I have never seen 
anything like it. Never.” 

From where they stood they seemed to look 
out over the sea — a sea roughened by a fresh 
wind, so that tumbling whitecaps showed on 
the tops of the green waves. Not a ship was 
to be seen, not a gull swept across the hazy 
noon-time skies. Just water, water, every¬ 
where, and a sense of immeasurable distance. 

“ It’s a mirror,” Judy explained, “ and it 
reflects a picture on the other wall.” 

“ It seems just as if I were looking out of a 



22 


JUDY 


window/’ said Anne. “ I have never seen the 
sea, Judy. Never.” 

“ I love it,” cried Judy, “ there is nothing 
like it in the whole world — the smell of it, and 
the slap of the wind against your cheeks. 
Oh, Anne, Anne, if we were only out there in a 
boat with the wind whistling through the sails.” 
Her face was all animation now, and there 
was a spot of brilliant color in each cheek. 

“ How beautiful she is,” Anne thought to 
herself. “ How very, very beautiful.” 

“ You must have hated to leave it,” she 
said, presently. 

“ I shall never get over it,” said Judy with a 
certain fierceness. 44 1 want to hear the 4 boom 
— boom — boom ’ of the waves — it is so 
quiet here, so deadly, deadly quiet — ” 

“ How sweet your room is,” said tactful 
little Anne, to change the subject. 

“ Yes, I do like this room,” admitted Judy 
reluctantly. 

There were pictures everywhere — here a 
dark little landscape, showing the heart of 
some old forest, there a flaming garden, all red 
and blue and purple in a glare of sunlight. In 



ANNE GOES TO TOWN 


23 


the alcove was an etching — the head of a 
dream-child, and a misty water-color hung 
over Judy’s desk. 

“ I did that myself,” she said, as Anne 
examined it. 

“ Oh, do you paint ? ” 

“ Some,” modestly. 

“ And play ? ” Anne’s eyes were on the 
little piano in the alcove. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Play now,” pleaded Anne. 

But Judy shook her head. “ After din¬ 
ner,” she said. “ The bell is ringing now.” 

Dinner at Judge Jameson’s was a formal 
affair, commencing with soup and ending 
with coffee. It was served in the great dining¬ 
room where silver dishes and tankards twinkled 
on the sideboard, and where the light came 
in through stained-glass windows, so that 
Anne always had a feeling that she was in 
church. 

The Judge sat at the head of the table, and 
his sister, Mrs. Patterson, at the foot. Judy 
was on one side and Anne on the other, and 
back of them, a silent, competent butler 



24 


JUDY 


spirited away their plates, and substituted 
others with a sort of sleight-of-hand dexterity 
that almost took Anne’s breath away. 

Anne and the Judge chatted together hap¬ 
pily throughout the meal. The Judge was 
very fond of the earnest maiden, whose grand¬ 
mother had been the friend of his youth, and 
his eyes went often from her sunny face to 
that of the moody, silent Judy. “ It will do 
Judy good to be with Anne,” he thought. “ I 
am going to have them together as much as 
possible.” 

“ Why don’t you get up a picnic to-morrow ? ” 
he suggested, as Perkins passed the finger- 
bowls — a rite which always tried Anne’s 
timid, inexperienced soul, as did the mysteries 
of the half-dozen spoons and forks that had 
stretched out on each side of her plate at the 
beginning of the meal. 

“ You could get some of Anne’s friends to 
join you,” went on the Judge, “ and I’ll let 
you have the three-seated wagon and Perkins; 
and Mary can pack a lunch.” 

Judy raised two calm eyes from a scrutiny 
of the table-cloth. 



ANNE GOES TO TOWN 


25 


“ I hate picnics,” she said. 

Then as the Judge, with a disappointed 
look on his kind old face, pushed back his 
chair, Judy rose and trailed languidly through 
the dining-room and out into the hall. 

Anne started to follow, but the hurt look 
on the Judge’s face was too much for her 
tender heart, and as she reached the door 
she turned and came back. 

“ I think a picnic would be lovely,” she 
said, a little surprised at her ow T n interference 
in the matter, “ and — and — let’s plan it, any¬ 
how, and Judy will have a good time when 
she gets there.” 

“ Do you really think she will?” said the 
Judge, with the light coming into his eyes. 

“ Yes,” said Anne, “ she will, and you’d 
better ask Nannie May and Amelia Morri¬ 
son.” 

“ And Launcelot Bart P ” asked the Judge. 

For a moment Anne hesitated, then she 
answered with a sort of gentle decision. 

“ We can’t have the picnic without Launce¬ 
lot. He knows the nicest places. You ask 
him, Judge, and — and — I’ll tell Judy.” 



26 


JUDY 


“ We will have something different, too,” 
planned the Judge. “ I will send to the city 
for some things — bonbons and all that. 
Perkins will know what to order. I haven’t 
done anything of this kind for so long that I 
don’t know the proper thing — but Perkins 
will know — he always knows — ” 

“ Anne, Anne,” came Judy’s voice from 
the top of the stairway. 

Anne fluttered away, rewarded by the 
Judge’s beaming face, but with fear tugging 
at her heart. What would Judy say? Judy 
who hated picnics and who hated boys ? 

“ Don’t you want to come down and take a 
walk ? ” she asked coaxingly, from the foot 
of the stairs. It would be easier to break the 
news to Judy out-of-doors, and then the Judge 
would be in the garden, a substantial ally. 

“ I hate walks,” said Imperiousness from 
the upper hall. 

“ Oh,” murmured Faintheart from the 
lower hall, and sat down on the bottom step. 

“ I won’t tell her till we are ready for bed,” 
was her sudden conclusion. 

It was getting dark, but Judy hanging over 





“Aren’t You Coming Up?” 







































ANNE GOES TO TOWN 


27 


the rail could just make out the huddled blue 
gingham bunch. 

“ Aren’t you coming up ? ” she asked, 
ominously. 

“ Yes,” and with her courage all gone, Anne 
rose and began the long climb up the stately 
stairway. 



CHAPTER III 

IN THE JUDGE’S GARDEN 

T HE Judge’s garden was not a place of 
flaming flower beds and smooth 
clipped lawns open to the gaze of 
every passer-by. 

It was a quiet spot. A place where 
old-fashioned flowers bloomed modestly in 
retired corners, veiled from curious stares by 
a high hedge of aromatic box. 

There was a fountain in the Judge’s garden, 
half-hidden by an encircling border of gold 
and purple fleur-de-lis, where a marble cupid 
rode gaily on the back of a bronze dolphin, 
from whose mouth spouted a stream of limpid 
water. 

There was, too, in summer, a tangled 
wilderness of roses — hundred-leaved ones, 
and little yellow ones, and crimson ones whose 

tall bushes topped the hedge, and great white 

28 


IN THE JUDGE'S GARDEN 


29 


ones that clung lovingly to the old stone wall 
that was the western barrier of the garden. 
And there was a bed of myrtle, and another 
one of verbenas, over which the butterflies 
hovered on hot summer days, and another of 
pansies, and along the wall great clumps of 
valley lilies. And at the end of the path was 
a lilac bush that the Judge’s wife had planted 
in the first days of bridal happiness. 

For years it had been a lonely garden, as 
lonely as the old Judge’s heart — for fifteen 
years, ever since the death of his wife, and the 
departure of his only son to sail the seas, the 
darkened windows of the old house had cast a 
shadow on the garden, a shadow that had 
fallen upon the Judge as he had walked there 
night after night in solitude. 

But this evening as he sat on the bench under 
the lilac bush, a broad bar of golden light 
shone down upon the gay cupid and the sleep¬ 
ing flowers, and from the open window came 
the lilt of girlish laughter and the rip¬ 
pling strain of the “ Spring Song,” as Judy’s 
fingers touched the keys of the little piano 
lightly. 



30 


JUDY 


Presently the music changed to a wild 
dashing strain. 

“ It’s a Spanish dance,” Judy explained to 
Anne. She was swaying back and forth, 
keeping time with her body to the melodies 
that tinkled from her fingers. 

“ I can dance it, too,” she added. 

“ Oh, do dance it, Judy — please,” cried 
Anne. She was living in a sort of Arabian 
Nights’ dream. Hitherto the girls that she 
had known had been demure and unaccom¬ 
plished, so that Judy seemed a brilliant 
creature, fresh from fairyland. 

With a crash the music stopped, as Judy 
jumped up from the bench, and went into the 
hall. 

“ Move the chairs back,” she directed over 
her shoulder, and Anne bustled about, and 
cleared a space in the centre of the polished 
floor. 

In the meantime Judy bent over a great 
trunk in the hall. 

“ Oh, dear,” she cried, as she piled a be¬ 
wildering array of things on the floor — bright 
hued gowns, picturesque hats, and a miscel- 



IN THE JUDGE’S GARDEN 


31 


laneous collection of fans and ribbons. “ Oh, 
dear, of course they are at the very bottom.” 

“ They ” proved to be a scarlet silk shawl 
and a pair of high-heeled scarlet slippers. 
Judy wound the shawl about her in the Span¬ 
ish manner, put on the high-heeled slippers, 
stuck an artificial red rose in her dark hair, 
and stepped forth as dashing a senorita as 
ever danced in old Seville. 

“ Oh, Judy,” was all that Anne could say. 
She plumped herself down in a big chair, too 
happy for words, and waved to Judy to go on, 
while she held her breath lest she might wake 
from this marvelous enchantment. 

Out in the garden, the Judge heard the 
click of castanets and the tap of the high heels. 

“ What is the child doing,” he wondered. 

As the dance proceeded, the sound of 
the castanets grew wilder and wilder, and the 
high heels beat double raps on the floor. 
Then, suddenly, with one sharp “ click-ck ” 
the dance ended, and there was silence. 

Then Anne cried, “ Do it again, do it again, 
Judy,” and the Judge clapped his applause 
from the garden below. 



32 


JUDY 


At the sound the girls poked their heads 
out of the window. 

“You ought to see her, Judge,’’ Anne’s 
tone was rapturous, “ you just ought to see 
her.” 

“ Shall I come down ? ” Judy asked. She 
was glowing, radiant. 

“ Yes, indeed. Come and dance on the 
path.” 

Five minutes later Judy was whirling, 
wraithlike in the white light of the moon, 
which turned her scarlet trappings to silver. 
Anne sat by the Judge and made admiring 
comments. 

“ Isn’t it fine ? ” she asked. 

The Judge nodded. 

“ I saw the Spanish girls do it when I was 
young,” he said, beating time with his cane, 
“ and Judy lived in Spain with her mother 
for a year, you’d think the cjiild was born to 
it,” and he chuckled with pride. 

But when Judy came up after the last wild 
dash, he was more moderate in his praises. 
The Judge had been raised in the days when 
children heard often the rhyme, “ Praise to 



IN THE JUDGE’S GARDEN 


33 


the face, is open disgrace,” and at times he 
reminded himself of the merits of such early 
discipline. 

“ I don’t know what your grandmother 
would have thought of it, my dear,” he said, 
with a doubtful shake of his head, “ in her 
days, young ladies didn’t do such things.” 

“Didn’t grandmother dance?” asked 
Judy. 

“ Indeed she did,” said the Judge with 
enthusiasm. “ Why, Judy, there wasn’t a 
couple that could beat your grandmother and 
me when we danced the Virginia reel.” 

Judy threw herself down on the bench 
beside him, and fanned herself with the end 
of her shawl. 

“ Can you dance, ” she asked, “ can you 
really dance, grandfather? I’m so glad. 
Some day I shall give a party, and have all 
the people of the neighborhood, and we will 
end it with the reel. May I, grandfather ? ” 

“ You may do anything you wish,” was the 
Judge’s rash promise, and with a quick laugh, 
Judy saw her opportunity and took advan¬ 
tage of it. 



34 


JUDY 


“ Then let’s go down to the kitchen, she 
said, “ and get something to eat now. I 
didn’t eat much dinner, and I am starved. 
Aren’t you, Anne ? ” 

But Anne had been trained in the way she 
should go. “ I — I haven’t thought of being 
hungry,” she hesitated. “ I never eat before 
I go to bed.” 

“ Oh, I do,” said Judy, scornfully. “ And 
dancing makes me ravenous.” 

“ But Perkins has retired, and Mary, and 
everybody — ” expostulated the Judge. 

“ Who cares for Perkins ? ” asked Judy 
with her nose in the air. 

“ Well,” said the Judge, who was hope¬ 
lessly the slave of his servants, “ he might not 
like it — ” 

“ Judge Jameson,” said Judy, shaking a 
reproachful finger at him, “ I believe you are 
afraid of your butler.” 

“ Well, perhaps I am, my dear,” said the 
Judge, weakly, “ but Perkins is an individual 
of a great deal of firmness, and he carries the 
keys, and I don’t believe you will find any¬ 
thing, anyhow. And if you eat up anything 



IN THE JUDGE’S GARDEN 


35 


that he has ordered for breakfast, you will 
have an unpleasant time accounting for it in 
the morning. I know Perkins, my dear — 
and he is rather difficult — rather difficult. 
But he is a very fine servant,” he amended 
hastily. 

“ You leave him to me in the morning,” 
said Judy, “ I’ll make the peace, grand¬ 
father, and I simply can’t be starved to-night.” 

“ But Perkins — ” 

“ Perkins won’t say a word to you,” said 
Judy, “ and if he does, you can say you were 
not in the kitchen, because you are to stay 
right here, and Anne and I will bring things 
up, and make you a receiver of stolen 
goods.” 

She was very charming in spite of her wil¬ 
fulness, and when she ended her little speech, 
by tucking her hand through the Judge’s arm, 
and looking up at him mischievously, the old 
gentleman gave in. 

The two girls were gone for a long time, so 
long that the Judge nodded on his bench. 

He was waked by a shriek that seemed to 
come from the depths of the earth. 




36 


JUDY 


“ What — is the matter, what’s the matter, 
my dear ? ” he cried, starting up. 

There was another subdued shriek, then a 
hysterical giggle. 

“ Judy is shut up in the ice-box,” announced 
Anne, hurrying up from the basement. 

“ Bless my soul,” ejaculated the Judge. 

“ We hunted around and found the key,” 
explained Anne, as the Judge stumped dis¬ 
tractedly through the lower hall, “ and Judy 
unlocked the door of the ice-box and got in¬ 
side, and she still had the key in her hand, and 
I hit the door accidentally and it slammed on 
her, and it has a spring lock and we can’t 
open it.” 

“ Bless my soul,” said the Judge again. 

The ice-box was a massive affair, almost 
like a small room. It was in a remote corner 
of the lower hallway, and its walls were thick 
and impenetrable. 

“ Let me out, oh, let me out,” came in 
muffled tones, as the Judge and Anne came 
up. 

“ My dear child, my dear child,” said the 
Judge, “how could you do such a thing?” 



IN THE JUDGE'S GARDEN 


37 


“ I shall freeze. I shall freeze,” wailed Judy. 

“ Are you very cold, Judy ? ” shivered Anne, 
sympathetically. 

“ It’s so dark — and damp. Let me out, 
let me out,” and Judy’s voice rose to a 
shriek. 

“ Now, my dear, be calm,” advised the 
Judge, whose hands were shaking with nerv¬ 
ousness, “I shall call Perkins — yes, I 
really think I shall have to call Perkins — ” 
and he hurried through the hall to the speak¬ 
ing tubes. 

“ Is there anything to eat in there ? ” Anne 
asked through the keyhole. 

“ Lots of things,” said Judy. “ I lighted 
a match as I came in, and there are lots of 
things. But I don’t want anything to eat — 
I want to get out — I want to get out.” 

“ Don’t cry, Judy,” advised Anne sooth¬ 
ingly, “ the Judge has called Perkins and he 
is coming down now.” 

Perkins emerged into the light of the lower 
hallway in a state of informal attire and un¬ 
settled temper. His dignity was his stock in 
trade, and how could one be dignified in an 



38 


JUDY 


old overcoat and bedroom slippers ? But the 
Judge's summons had been peremptory, and 
there had been no time for the niceties of 
toilet in which Perkins’ orderly soul revelled. 

“ There ain’t no other key,” he said, severely. 
“ I guess we will have to wait until mornin’, 
sir.” 

“ But we can’t wait until morning,” raged 
the Judge, “ the young lady will freeze.” 

“ Oh, no, sir,” said Perkins, loftily, “ oh, 
no, sir, she won’t freeze. Nothing freezes in 
that there box, sir.” 

“ Well, she will die of cold,” said the Judge. 
“ Don’t be a blockhead, Perkins, we have got 
to get her out now — at once — Perkins.” 

“ All right, sir,” said Perkins, “ then I’ll 
have to go for a locksmith, sir — ” 

“ Can’t you take off the lock ? ” asked 
the Judge. 

Perkins drew himself up. “ That’s not 
my work, sir,” he said, stiffly, “ no, sir, I 
can’t take off no locks, sir,” and so the Judge 
had to be content, while the independent 
Perkins hunted up a locksmith and brought 
him to the scene of disaster. 



IN THE JUDGE'S GARDEN 


39 


It was a white and somewhat cowed Judy 
that came out of the ice-box. 

“ Make her a cup of strong coffee, Per¬ 
kins,” commanded the Judge, as he received 
the woebegone heroine in his arms, “ and 
take it up to her room, with something to eat 
with it.” 

“ I don’t want anything to eat,” Judy 
declared. “ There’s everything to eat in that 
awful box — enough for an army — but I 
don’t feel as if I could ever eat again,” in a 
tone of martyr-like dolefulness. 

“ Them things in there is for the picnic, 
miss,” said Perkins. “ It’s lucky you and 
Miss Anne didn’t eat them,” and he cast on 
the culprit a look of utter condemnation. 

At the word “ picnic,” Anne’s soul sank 
within her. She had forgotten all about the 
picnic in the excitement of the evening, all 
about Judy’s anger and the confession she 
was to make of the plans for Saturday. 

She and the Judge eyed each other guiltily, 
as Judy sank down on the bench and stared 
at Perkins. 

“ What picnic ? ” she demanded fiercely. 



40 


JUDY 


“ The Judge said I was to get things ready, 
miss,” said Perkins, dismally, and looked to 
his master for corroboration. 

“ Didn’t you tell her, Anne ? ” asked the 
Judge, helplessly. 

Anne felt as if she were alone in the world. 
Perkins and the Judge and Judy were all 
looking at her, and the truth had to come. 

“ We decided to have the picnic to-morrow, 
anyhow, Judy,” she said. “ We thought 
maybe you would like it after it was all 
planned.” 

Judy jumped up from the bench and began 
a rapid ascent of the stairway. Half-way up 
she turned and looked down at the three con¬ 
spirators. “ I sha'n’t like it,” she cried, 
shrilly, “and I sha’n’t go.” 

“ Judy! ” remonstrated the Judge. 

“ Oh, Judy,” cried poor little Anne. 

But Perkins, who had lived with the Judge 
in the days of Judy’s lady grandmother, 
turned his offended back on this self-willed 
and unworthy scion of a noble race, and 
marched into the kitchen to make the coffee. 



CHAPTER IV 


YOUR GRANDMOTHER, MY DEAR 

J UDY had reached the door of her room 
when the Judge called her. 

“ Come down,” he said, “ I want to 
talk to you.” 

“ I’m tired,” said Judy, in a stifled voice, 
and Anne, who had followed her, saw that she 
was crying. 

“ I know,” the Judge’s voice was gentle, 
“ I know, but I won’t keep you long. Come.” 

Judy went reluctantly, and he led the way to 
the garden bench. 

It was very still out there in the garden — 
just the splash of the little fountain, and the 
drone of lazy insects. The moon hung 
low, a golden disk above the distant line of 
dark hills. 

“ Judy,” began the Judge, “ do you know, my 
dear, that you are very like your grand mother ?” 

41 


42 


JUDY 


Judy looked at him, surprised at the turn 
the conversation was taking. “ Am I ? ” she 
asked. 

“ Yes,” continued the Judge, “ and es¬ 
pecially in two things.” His eyes were fixed 
dreamily on a bed of tall lilies that shone pale 
in the half light. 

“ What things ? ” Judy was interested. 
She had expected a lecture, but this did not 
sound like one. 

“ In your love of flowers — and in your 
temper — my dear.” 

Judy’s head went up haughtily. “ Grand¬ 
father ! ” 

“ Yt>u don’t probably call it temper. But 
your grandmother did, and she conquered 
hers — and I am going to tell you how she 
did it, because I know she would want me to 
tell you, Judy.” 

Judy sat sulkily as far from her grand¬ 
father as she could get. Her hands were 
clasped around her knees and she stared out 
over the dusky garden, wide-eyed, and it 
must be confessed a little obstinate. Judy 
knew she had faults, but if the truth must be 



YOUR GRANDMOTHER, MY DEAR” 43 


<« 


told, she was a little proud of her temper — 
44 I have an awful temper,” she had confessed 
on several occasions, and when meek admirers 
had murmured, 44 How dreadful,” she had 
tossed her head and had said, 44 But I can’t 
help it, you know, all of my family have had 
tempers,” and as Judy’s family was known 
to be aristocratic and exclusive, her more 
plebeian friends had envied and had tried to 
emulate her, generally with disastrous results. 

She was not quite sure that she wanted to 
conquer it. It often gave her what she wanted, 
and that was something. 

“ The first time I had a taste of your grand¬ 
mother’s temper,” the Judge related, 44 we 
had had an argument about a gown. We 
had been invited to a great dinner at the 
Governor’s, and she had nothing to wear. 
She took me to the shop to see the stuff 
she wanted. It was heavy blue satin with 
pink roses all over it, and there was real 
lace to trim it with. It was beautiful and I 
wanted her to have it, but when they named 
the price it was more than I could pay — I 
was a poor lawyer in those days, Judy — so 



44 


JUDY 


I said we would think it over, and we went 
home. All the way there your grandmother 
was very quiet and very white, but when we 
reached home and I tried to explain, she 
simply would not listen. She would not go 
to the Governor’s, she said, unless she could 
have that gown. You can imagine the em¬ 
barrassment it caused me — it was as much 
as my career was worth to stay away from that 
dinner, and I couldn’t go without her. 

‘ I won’t go. I won’t go,’ she said over 
and over again, and when I had coaxed and 
coaxed to no effect, I sat down and looked at 
her helplessly, and troubled as I was, I could 
not help thinking that she was the loveliest 
creature in the world — with her rose red 
cheeks and her flashing eyes. 

“ She said many cutting things to me, but 
suddenly she stopped and ran out of the room, 
and presently I saw her in the garden, 
this garden, my dear, and she was flying 
around the oval path, as if she were walking 
for a wager, her thin ruffles swirling around 
her, and the strings of her bonnet fluttering 
in the wind. 



c< 


YOUR GRANDMOTHER , MY DEAR” 45 


“ Around and around she went, and I just 
sat there and stared. When she started in 
there was a deep frown on her forehead, but 
as she walked I saw her face clear, and when 
she had completed the round a dozen times 
or more, I saw her throw back her head in a 
light-hearted way, and then she ran into the 
house. 

44 She came straight to me and threw her 
arms around my neck. ‘ John/ she said, 
‘ John, dear/ and there was the tenaerest 
tremble in her voice, 4 John Jameson, I was 
a hateful thing.’ I tried to stop her, but she 
insisted. 4 Oh, yes, I was. And I don’t want 
the dress, I will wear an old one — and I’ll 
make you proud of me — ’ 

44 Then all at once she began to sob, and her 
head dropped on my shoulder. 4 Oh/ she 
cried, 4 how could I say such things to you — 
how could I — ? ’ 

44 4 What made you change, sweetheart ? ’ 
I asked, and she whispered, 4 Oh, your face, 
and the trouble in it.’ 

44 4 I made up my mind that I wouldn’t say 
another word until I could get control of my 




46 


JUDY 


temper, and so I went into the garden and 
walked and walked, and do you know, John 
Jameson, that I walked around that oval six¬ 
teen times before I could give up that 
dress.’ 

“ It wasn’t the last time she walked around 
that oval, Judy,” the Judge finished, with a 
reminiscent smile on his old face, “ and so 
perfectly did she conquer herself, that when 
she left me, it was just an angel stepping from 
earth to the place where she belonged.” 

Judy had listened breathlessly. So vivid 
had been the description, that she had seemed 
to see on the garden walk, the slender, im¬ 
perious figure, the intent girlish face, and out 
of her knowledge of her own nature, she had 
entered into the struggle that had taken place 
in her grandmother’s heart, as she flew around 
the oval of the old garden. 

“ Oh, grandfather,” she said, when the 
Judge’s quavering voice dropped into silence, 
“ how lovely she was — ” 

“ She was, indeed, and I want you to be as 
strong.” 

Judy tucked her hand into his. “ I’ll try,” 



YOUR GRANDMOTHER , MY DEAR’ 9 47 


« 


she said, simply, “ thank you for telling me, 
grandfather.” 

“ I want you to be happy here, too,” said 
the old man wistfully, and then as she did 
not answer, “ do you think you can, Judy ? ” 

Judy caught her breath quickly. With all 
her faults she was very honest. 

She bent and kissed the Judge on his 
withered cheek. “ You are so good to me,” 
she said, evasively, and with another kiss, she 
ran up-stairs to Anne. 

Anne was in bed and Judy thought she was 
asleep, but an hour later as she lay awake 
lonely and restless, with her eyes fixed long¬ 
ingly on the great picture of the sea, a soft 
seeking hand curled within her own, and Anne 
whispered, “ I didn’t mean to make you un- 
happy, Judy,” and Judy, clear-eyed and 
repentant in the darkness of the night, mur¬ 
mured back, “ I was hateful, Anne,” and a 
half hour later, the moon, peeping in, saw the 
two serene, sleeping faces, cheek to cheek on 
the same pillow. 



CHAPTER V 


TOO MANY COOKS 

I N spite of herself Judy was having a good 
time. 

“ I know you will enjoy it,” had been 
Anne’s last drowsy remark, and Judy’s final 
thought had been, “ I’ll go, but it will be 
horrid.” 

But it wasn’t horrid. 

There had been Anne’s happiness in the 
first place. Judy had wondered at it until she 
found out that Anne’s picnic experiences had 
been limited to little jaunts with the children 
of the neighborhood, and an occasional Sunday- 
school gathering. The Judge had lived his 
lonely life in his lonely house, and except 
when Anne and her little grandmother had 
been invited to formal meals, he had not in¬ 
terested himself in any festivities. 

There had been the early start, the meet- 

48 


TOO MANY COOKS 


49 


ing of the queer boy at the crossroads — the 
boy with the lazy air and the alert eyes; the 
crowding of the big carriage with two rather 
dowdy little country girls, one of whom was, 
in Judy’s opinion, exceedingly pert, and the 
other exasperatingly placid; the laughter and 
the light-heartedness, the beauty of the blos¬ 
soming spring world, the restfulness of the dim 
forest aisles, the excitement of the arrival on 
the banks of the stream, and the arrangement 
of the camp for the day. 

And now Judy, having declined more ac¬ 
tive occupation, was in a hammock, swung in 
a circle of pines. The softened sunlight shone 
gold on the dried needles under foot, and 
everywhere was the aromatic fragrance of the 
forest. Now and then there was a flutter of 
wings as a nesting bird swooped by with 
scarcely a note of song. A pair of redbirds 
came and went — flashes of scarlet against 
the whiteness of a blossoming dogwood-tree. 
Far away the squalling of a catbird mingled 
with the mellow cadences of the mountain 
stream. 

There was the sound of laughter, too, and 



50 


JUDY 


the chatter of gay voices in the distance, 
where the young people fished from the banks. 

Judy could just see them through an open¬ 
ing in the pines. The three girls perched on 
the bent trunk of an old tree, which hung over 
the water, were dangling their lines and watch¬ 
ing the corks that bobbed on the surface. The 
Judge, with a big hat pushed aw r ay from his 
warm, red face, held the can of bait and dis¬ 
coursed entertainingly on his past angling 
experiences. 

Perkins in the foreground was opening the 
lunch-hampers, and just outside of Judy’s 
circle of pines, a brisk little fire sent up its 
pungent smoke, and beside the fire, Launcelot 
Bart was cutting bacon. 

Judy watched him with interest. He was 
tall and thin, but he carried himself wfith a 
lazy grace, and in spite of his old corduroy suit, 
there was about him a certain air of dis¬ 
tinction. 

He was whistling softly as he put the iron 
pan over the coals, and dropped into it a half- 
dozen slices of the bacon. 

“ Watch these, Perkins,” he called, “ I’ll 



TOO MANY COOKS 


51 


be back in a minute,” and he started towards 
the hammock. 

As he came up, Judy closed her eyes, with 
an air of indifference. 

“ Asleep ? ” asked Launcelot, a half-dozen 
steps from her. 

Judy opened her eyes. 

“ Oh — is that you ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes. Don’t you want to come and help 
me cook?” He was smiling down at her 
pleasantly. 

“ I hate cooking.” Judy’s voice was cold. 
She hoped he would go away. 

Launcelot leaned against a tree to discuss 
the question. 

“ Oh,” he said, “ I don’t hate it. It’s 
rather a fine art, you know.” 

“ Anybody can cook,” murmured Judy 
with decision. 

“ H-m. Can you, little girl ? ” 

Judy sat up at that. “ I’m fourteen,” she 
flashed. 

Launcelot laughed, such a contagious laugh, 
that in spite of herself Judy felt the corners of 
her lips twitch. 



52 


JUDY 


44 That waked you up,” he said, 44 you 
didn't like to have me call you 4 little girl.' 
Well, am I to say Miss Jameson or 
Judy?” 

Judy pondered. 

44 Neither,” she said at last. 

44 Then what — ? ” began Launcelot. 44 Oh, 
by Jove, the bacon’s burning. I’ll be back in 
a minute.” 

When he had taken the bacon out of the pan, 
and had laid the fish in a corn-mealed sym¬ 
metrical row in the hot fat, he again turned 
the pan over to Perkins and came back to 
Judy. 

44 Well ? ” he asked, as he came up. 

44 Call me Judith,” said the incensed young 
lady. 44 Judy is my pet name, and I keep it 
for — my friends.” 

Launcelot gave a long whistle. 

44 Say, do you talk like this to Anne? ” he 
asked. 

44 Like what ? ” 

44 In this — er — straight from the shoulder 
sort of fashion ? ” 

44 No. Anne is my friend.” 



TOO MANY COOKS 


55 


Launcelot shook his head. “ You can't 
have Anne for a friend unless you have 
me.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ She was my friend first.” 

“ Oh, well,” Judy shrugged her shoulders 
and shut her eyes again, “it is too hot to 
argue.” 

There was a long silence, and then Launce¬ 
lot said: “ Don’t you want to fish ? ” 

“ I hate fishing.” 

“ Or to pick wild flowers ? ” 

“ I hate — ” Judy had started her usual 
ungracious formula, before she recognized its 
untruth. “ Well, I don’t want to pick them 
now,” she amended, “ I’d rather stay here.” 

“ But you are not going to stay here.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ You are going to help me cook those fish.” 

“ I won’t.” 

“ Oh, yes you will. Come on.” 

“ Oh, well. If you won’t let me alone.” 

She slipped out of the hammock and picked 
up her hat. There was a tired droop to her 
slender young figure. “ No, I am not going 



54 


JUDY 


to let you alone,” said Launcelot quietly. 
“You poor little thing.” 

She looked at him, startled. 

“ Why ? ” she breathed. 

“ You are lonely. That’s why. You’ve 
got to do something. You just think and 
think and think — and get miserable — I 
know — I’ve been there.” 

It came out haltingly, the boyish expression 
of sympathy and understanding. And the 
sympathy combined with a hitherto unmet 
masterfulness conquered Judy. For a mo¬ 
ment she stood very still, then she turned to 
him an illumined face. 

“ You may call me — Judy,” she said shyly, 
then slipped past him and ran to the fire. 

When he reached her, she was bending over 
the pan. 

“ How nice they look,” she said, as Launce¬ 
lot turned the fish, and they lay all crisp and 
brown in an appetizing row. 

“ You shall do the next,” said Launcelot, 
smiling a little as he glanced at her absorbed 
face. 

So while he made the coffee, Judy fried 



TOO MANY COOKS 


55 


more bacon, and they slipped six fish into the 
big pan. 

“ Mine don’t seem to brown as yours did,” 
she told him, anxiously. 

“ Perhaps the fat wasn’t hot enough,” was 
Launcelot’s suggestion. <fi It has to be smok- 

• 99 

mg. 

“ Oh, dear,” sighed Judy, “ mine are going 
to look light brown instead of lovely and 
golden like yours.” 

“ Put on some more w T ood.” Launcelot’s 
tone was abstracted. He was measuring the 
coffee, and it took all of his attention. 

Judy poked a stick into the centre of the 
fire. For a moment it seemed to die down, 
then suddenly the big black pan seemed held 
aloft by a solid cone of yellow flame. 

The grease in the pan snapped, and little 
burnt bits of corn-meal flew in all direc¬ 
tions. 

“ Now they are cooking all right,” and Judy 
shielded her face with her hand, as she held 
the long handle and watched complacently. 

Suddenly Launcelot dropped the coffee-pot. 
“ Take them off, take them off,” he cried. 



56 


JUDY 


Judy, with her fork upraised, stared at him 
as if petrified. 

“ Why ? ” she stammered. 

He snatched the pan from the fire. 

“ They’re burning,” he cried, and turned 
the fish up one by one. 

They were as black as coals down to the 
very tips of their crisp little tails! 



CHAPTER VI 


A RAIN AND A RUNAWAY 


A T her ciy of dismay, Perkins strolled 
over to take a look. 

“ They’re burnt. Miss,” he an¬ 
nounced, bending over the pan. 

** Of course they are,” snapped Judy, 44 any 
one could see that, Perkins.” 

Perkins looked over her head, loftily. 

44 Yes, Miss, of course,” he said, 44 but it’s 
mostly always that way when there are too 
many cooks. I’m afraid there won’t be 
enough to go around, Miss.” 

44 Are these all P ” asked Judy, anxiously. 
44 Yes,” said Launcelot, 44 1 cooked four 
and you burned six, and there are the Judge 
and Anne and Nannie and Amelia and Per¬ 
kins and you and I to be fed.” 

44 You needn’t count me, sir,” said Perkins, 
44 1 never eats, sir.” 


57 


68 


JUDY 


With which astounding statement, he car¬ 
ried away the charred remains. 

“ Does he mean that he doesn’t eat at all ? ” 
questioned Judy, staring after the stout figure 
of the retiring butler. 

Launcelot laughed. “ Oh, he eats enough,” 
he said, “ only he doesn’t do it in public. He 
knows his place.” 

“ I wish he did,” said Judy, dubiously. 
“ Oh, dear, what shall we do about the fish ? ” 

“ There will be one apiece for the others,” 
said Launcelot. “ I guess you and I will have 
to do without — Judy — ” 

He spoke her name with just the slightest 
hesitation, and his eyes laughed as they met 
hers. 

“ And I said any one could cook! ” Judy’s 
tone was very humble. 44 What a prig you 
must have thought me, Launcelot.” 

“ Oh, go and get some flowers for the table 
and forget your troubles,” w^as Launeelot’s 
off-hand w T ay of settling the question, and as 
Judy w^ent off she decided that she should 
like him. He was different from other boys. 
He was a gentleman in spite of his shabby 



A RAIN AND A RUNAWAY 


59 


clothes, and his masterfulness rather pleased 
her — hitherto Judy had ruled every boy 
within her domain, and Launcelot was a new 
experience. 

It was a hungry crowd that trooped to the 
great gray rock wdiere the table was spread. 

“ How beautiful you have made it look, 
Judy,” cried Anne, as she came up, blissfully 
unconscious of a half-dozen new freckles and 
a burned nose. 

Nannie May sniffed. “ Fish,” she said, 
ecstatically, “ our fish, oh, Amelia, don’t 
things look good.” 

Amelia surveyed the table solemnly. She 
was a fat, rather dumpy girl of twelve. She 
was noted principally for two things, her in¬ 
dolence and her appetite, and it was in defer¬ 
ence to the latter that she sighed rapturously 
as she surveyed the table. She had never 
seen anything just like it. The country pic¬ 
nics of the neighbors always showed an 
amazing array of cakes and pies and chicken, 
but these were here, and added to them w T ere 
sandwiches of wonderful and attractive shapes, 
marvelous fruits, bonbons, and chocolates, 



60 


JUDY 


and salads garnished with a skill known to 
none other in the village but the accomplished 
Perkins. 

As her eyes swept over the table, they were 
arrested by the platter of fish. In spite of 
Perkins’ overplentiful border of cress and 
sliced lemon — put on to hide deficiencies, the 
four fish looked pitifully inadequate. 

44 I caught four myself,” said Amelia, 
heavily, pointing an accusing finger at the 
platter, 44 and Anne caught three and Nan 
three — there were ten.” 

Launcelot groaned. 44 I wish you weren’t 
quite so good at arithmetic, Amelia,” he said, 
44 we shall have to confess — we burned the 
rest up — and please ma’am, we are awfully 
sorry.” 

They all laughed at the funny figure he 
made as he dropped on his knees before the 
stolid Amelia — but into Judy’s cheeks crept 
a little flush — 44 I — ” she began, with a 
tremble in her voice; but Launcelot inter¬ 
rupted ; 44 we will never do it again,” he 
promised, and then as they laughed again, he 
rose and stood at Judy’s side. 



A RAW AND A RUNAWAY 


61 


“ Don’t you dare tell them that you did it,” 
he whispered, and once more she felt the 
masterfulness of his tone. “ I should have 
watched the fire — it was as much my fault 
as yours,” and with that he picked up a pile of 
cushions, and went to arrange a place for 
her at the head of the table. 

Amelia ate steadily through the menu. 
She was not overawed by Perkins, nor was 
her attention distracted by the laughter and 
fun of the others. It was not until the ice¬ 
cream was served — pink and luscious, with a 
wreath of rosy strawberries encircling each 
plate — that she spoke. 

“ Well,” she said, “ I don’t know’s I mind 
now about those fish being burned,” with 
which oracular remark, she helped herself to 
two slices of cake, and ate up her ice in 
silence. 

Nannie May was thirteen and looked about 
eleven. She was red-haired and fiery-tem- 
pered, and she loved Anne with all the strength 
of her loyal heart. As yet she did not like 
Judy. It was all very well to look like a prin¬ 
cess, but that was no reason why one should 




62 


JUDY 


be as stiff as a poker. She hoped Anne would 
not love Judy better than she did her, and she 
noted jealously the rapt attention with which 
Anne observed the newcomer and listened to 
all she said. 

Judy was telling the episode of the ice-box. 
She told it well, and in spite of herself Nannie 
had to laugh. 

“ When I went in there were salads to right 
of me, cold tongue to the left of me, and roast 
chicken in front of me,” said Judy, gesticu¬ 
lating dramatically, “ and I was so hungry 
that it seemed too good to be true that Perkins 
should have provided all of those things. And 
just then the door slammed and my match 
went out — and there I was in the cold and the 
dark — and I just screamed for Anne.” 

“ Why didn’t you put the latch up when 
you went in?” asked Nannie, scornfully. 
“ It seems to me ’most anybody would have 
thought of that.” 

Anne came eagerly to her friend’s defence. 
“ Neither of us knew it was a spring latch,” 
she said, “ and I was as surprised as Judy 


was. 



A RAIN AND A RUNAWAY 


63 


“ Why didn’t you eat up all the things ? ” 
asked Amelia, as she helped herself to another 
chocolate. 

“ I didn’t have any light — ” began Judy. 

“ Well, I should have eaten them up in the 
dark,” mused Amelia, as Perkins passed her 
the salted almonds for the sixth time. 

“ It was a good thing I didn’t,” laughed 
Judy, “ or you wouldn’t have had anything to 
eat to-day. Would they, Perkins ? ” 

For once in his life Perkins w T as in an affable 
mood. The lunch had gone off well, there 
had been no spiders in the cream or red ants 
in the cake. The coffee had been hot and the 
salads cold, and now that lunch was over he 
could pack the dishes away to be washed by 
the servants at home, and rest on his laurels. 

“ I should have found something, Miss,” 
he said, cheerfully; then as a big drop splashed 
down on his bald head, he leaned over the 
Judge. 

“ I think it is going to rain, sir,” he mur¬ 
mured, confidentially. 

“ By George,” gasped the Judge, as a bright 
flash of light and a low rumble emphasized 



64 


JUDY 


Perkins’ words, “ by George, I believe it 

* ? j 

is. 

“ Oh, oh, oh,” screamed Amelia, and 
threw her arms frantically around Nannie. 

“ Don’t be silly,” said Nannie, and gave her 
a little shake. 

“We shall have to run for it,” said Launce- 
lot, gathering up wraps and hats, as a sudden 
gust of wind picked up the ends of the table¬ 
cloth and sent the napkins fluttering across 
the ground like a flock of white geese. 

“ You’d better get the young ladies to the 
carriage, sir,” said Perkins, packing things 
into hampers in a hurry. 

“ They will get wet. It’s going to be a heavy 
wind storm,” said the Judge with an anxious 
look at Judy. 

“ Let’s run for the Cutter barn,” cried 
Anne, with sudden inspiration. 

“ Good for you, Anne,” said Launcelot, 
“ that’s the very thing.” 

“ Where is the Cutter barn? ” asked Judy. 

“ Across that stream and beyond the strip 
of woods. Over in the field.” 

“ Come on, Anne, come on. Oh, isn’t this 



A RAIN AND A RUNAWAY 


65 


glorious. I love the wind. I love it, I love 
it.” Judy’s cry became almost a chant as she 
led the way across the little bridge and through 
the fast-darkening bit of woodland. The 
wind fluttered her white garments around her, 
her long hair streamed out behind, and her 
flying feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. 

Behind her came Anne, less like a wood- 
nymph, perhaps, but fresh and fair, and not 
at all breathless, then Nannie, bareheaded 
and with her best hat wrapped carefully in 
her short skirts, then Amelia, plunging heavily. 

Launcelot waited to help Perkins with the 
horses and hampers and then he followed the 
girls. 

The rain came before he was half-way across 
the stream, and the world grew dark for a 
moment in the heavy downpour that drenched 
him. There was a blaze of blue-white light, 
and a crash that seemed to shake the uni¬ 
verse. 

“ They will be scared half to death,” was 
Launcelot’s thought as he forged ahead. 

Just at the edge of the woods he came upon 
Anne and Judy. Judy had dropped down in 



66 


JUDY 


a white huddled bunch, and Anne was bending 
over her. 

“ She ran too fast,” she explained, while the 
rain beat down on her fair little head, “ and 
she can’t get her breath. Nannie and Amelia 
got to the barn before the rain came, but I 
couldn’t leave Judy.” 

“ I’m all right,” gasped Judy, “ you run on, 
Anne. I’m all right.” 

“ Yes, run on, Anne,” commanded Launce- 
lot. “ I’ll take care of Judy, and you must 
not get w^et,” and with a protest Anne 
disappeared behind the curtain of driving 
rain. 

Judy staggered to her feet and attempted 
to walk two or three steps. 

“ Stop it,” said Launcelot, firmly, “ you 
must not.” 

“ But I can’t stay here,” cried poor Judy, 
desperately. 

Her lips were blue and her cheeks were 
white, so that Launcelot wavered no longer. 
Without any warning, he picked her up as if 
she had been a child, and ran with her across 
the field. 



A RAIN AND A RUNAWAY 


67 


“ Put me down, Launcelot. Put me down.” 
Judy’s tone was imperious. 

But she had met her match. Launcelot 
plodded on doggedly. 

“ I shall never forgive you,” she sobbed, 
as they reached the door of the Cutter 
barn. 

“ Yes, you will,” said Launcelot, and his 
lips were set in a firm line. “ I had to do it, 
Judy.” 

He laid her on a pile of hay in the corner. 
Her eyes were closed, and her dark lashes 
swept across her pallid cheeks. 

“ She isn’t strong,” whispered the worried 
Anne, her tender fingers pushing back Judy’s 
wet hair. 

“ No,” said Launcelot, his deep young 
voice softening to a gentler key as he looked 
down at her, “ she isn’t. Poor little thing! ” 

Judy heard, and her lashes fluttered. “ How 
good they are,” she thought, remorsefully, 
and then she seemed to float away from 
realities. 

When she came to herself, Launcelot had 
gone, and the three little girls were rubbing 



68 


JUDY 


her hands and trying to get her to drink some 
water. 

“ Oh, Judy, do you feel better ? ” Anne 
whispered; “ we w T ere so frightened.” 

“ Yes,” murmured Judy, and the color 
began to come into her face. 

“ Launcelot went to see if he could get 
something from Perkins for you to take,” said 
Anne; “ he told us to build a fire in the old 
stove, but we have been so worried about you 
that we haven’t done anything.” 

“ Is there a stove? ” asked Judy, listlessly. 

“ Yes. Mr. Cutter put it in here to heat 
milk for the lambs, and once when we had a 
picnic we made our coffee here.” 

“ There isn’t any wood,” said Amelia, 
hopelessly. 

“ There is some up in the loft,” said Nannie. 
“ Don’t you remember the boys put it there, 
so that no one but ourselves could find it ? ” 

She went swdftly up the narrow steps, but 
came flying back in a panic. 

“ There's some one up there ,” she whispered, 
all the color gone from her face. 

“ Hush,” said Anne, with her eyes on Judy. 



A RAIN AND A RUNAWAY 


69 


Judy was not afraid. She was still weak 
and wan, but she was braver than the 
little country girls, and not easily frightened. 

‘‘It is probably a pussy cat,” she scoffed. 

“ Or a hen,” giggled Amelia. 

Anne said nothing. The darkness, the 
crashing storm outside, and Judy’s illness had 
upset her, and she shivered with apprehension. 

“ No,” Nannie flared, with a scornful look 
at Amelia and Judy, “ it isn’t a cat and it isn’t 
a hen. IT sneezed ! ” 

“ Ask who’s there,” advised Judy from her 
couch. 

“ I don’t dare,” said Nannie. 

“ I don’t dare,” said Amelia. 

So that it was little timid Anne, after all, 
who gathered up her courage and went to the 
foot of the stairs and said in a trembling voice: 

“ Please, who is up there ? ” 

For a moment there was silence, and then 
some one said in sepulchral tones: 

“ You won’t ever tell ? ” 

The girls stared at each other. 

“ What shall we say ? ” whispered Anne. 

“ Say ‘ never,’ ” suggested Judy, wishing 



70 


JUDY 


6he were well enough to manage this exciting 
episode. 

“ NEVER,” said the little girls all together. 

There was a rustling in the hay in the loft, 
then cautious steps, and a figure appeared at 
the top of the stairs. 

At sight of it, Amelia shrieked and Nannie 
giggled, but Anne ran forward with both hands 
out, and with her fair little face alight with 
welcome. 

“ Why, Tommy Tolliver, Tommy Tolliver,” 
she said, “is it really you, is it really, really 
you? 


>> 



CHAPTER VII 


TOMMY TOLLIVER: SEAMAN 


| AOMMY shook hands with Anne, then 
sat down disconsolately on the bottom 
step. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ it’s me.” 

After a moment’s uncomfortable silence, 
Anne asked, “ Didn’t you like it. Tom¬ 
my ? ” 

Tommy looked gloomy. 

“ Aw,” he burst out, “ they thought I was 
too young — ” 

“ Did you go as far as China P ” questioned 
Amelia, eagerly. 

“ Of course he didn’t, Amelia,” said Nannie 
with a superior air; “he has only been away 
three weeks.” 

“ Then you didn’t get me any preserved 
ginger,” pouted Amelia. 

How could I?” But Tommy looked 

71 


<< 



72 


JUDY 


sheepish, as the memory of certain boastful 
promises came to him. 

“ Anyhow,” he announced suddenly, “ I’m 
not going to give up. I am going to be a 
a sailor some day — if I have to run away 
again.” 

At that Judy sat up and fixed him with 
burning eyes. 

“ Did you go to sea ? ” she asked, intensely. 

“ I tried to.” 

“ How far did you get? ” 

“To Baltimore.” 

“ And they wouldn’t have you ? ” 

“No. And I had used up all my money, 
so I had to come back.” 

“ Have you ever been on the ocean ? ” 

“No. Have you ? ” 

“ Yes. My father was in the navy.” 

“ Gee — ” Tommy drew near to this 
fascinating stranger. 

“ The next time you want to run away, you 
tell me,” said Judy, and sank back on the hay, 
“ and I’ll help you.” 

“ But, Judy,” said horrified little Anne, 
“ he isn’t going to run away any more — he is 




TOMMY TOLLIVER : SEAMAN 


73 


going to stay here, and please his father and 
go to school — aren’t you, Tommy?” 

Tommy looked from the fair little girl to the 
dark thin one. Hitherto Anne had been his 
ideal of gentle girlhood, but in Judy he now 
found a kindred spirit, a girl with a daring 
that more than matched his own —- a girl who 
loved the sea — who knew about the sea — 
who could tell him things. 

“ Aw — I don’t know,” he said, uncer¬ 
tainly. “ I guess I can run away if I want to, 
Anne.” 

“ No, you can’t,” cried Anne. “ You ought 
not to encourage him, Judy.” 

“ I’m not encouraging him,” said Judy, 
but there was a wicked sparkle in her 
eyes. 

Tommy saw it and swaggered a little. He 
had returned home in the spirit of the prodigal 
son. He was ready to be forgiven. To eat 
of the fatted calf — if he should be so lucky. 
If not, to eat humble pie, The sight of the 
familiar fields and roads had even brought 
tears to his eyes. But now — ! 

“ A fellow can’t be tied to a little old place 




74 


JUDY 


like this all his life,” he said, toploftically, 
“ you can’t expect it, Anne.” 

“ I don’t expect it,” said little Anne, quietly, 
“ but if you had seen your mother after you 
ran away, Tommy — ” 

At that Tommy lowered his head. 

“ I know — ” he stammered, huskily, “ poor 
little mother.” 

“Tell me about her,” he said. And now 
he turned his back on the dark young lady on 
the hay. 

But Launcelot’s voice broke in on Anne’s 
story. He came in all wet and dripping. 

“How’s Judy?” he began, then stopped 
and whistled. 

“ Hello,” he exclaimed, “ hello, Bobby 
Shafto.” 

“ Oh, I say,” said Tommy, very red. 

“ I thought you were on the high seas by 
now,” said Launcelot. 

“ Well, I wanted to be,” said Tommy, 
resentfully. 

“ I am glad you’re back. We have missed 
you awfully, old chap,” and Launcelot slapped 
him on the shoulder in hearty greeting. 




TOMMY TOLLIVER : SEAMAN 


75 


“How is Judy?” he asked. 

“ Better, thank you,” said the young lady 
in the corner. “ Tommy was a tonic and 
came just in time.” 

“ Well, I am glad you found some kind of 
tonic. Perkins didn’t have a thing but some 
mustard and red pepper, and I was feeling for 
you if we had to dose you with either of those.” 

Judy started to laugh, but stopped sud¬ 
denly. 

“ I forgot,” she said, “ I am mad at you — ” 

“ Oh, no, you’re not.” 

“ But lam-” 

“ Because I carried you across the field 
when you didn’t want me to ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ My child,” advised Launcelot, “ don’t 
be silly.” 

“ Oh,” raged Judy, and turned her back to 
him. 

Launcelot looked down at her for a moment. 

“ You know that tree where you fainted ? ” 
he asked. 

A little shrug of Judy’s shoulder was the 
only answer. 



76 


JUDY 


“ Well, it was struck by lightning before I 
got back — ” 

“ Really — ? ” Judy was facing him now, 
breathless with interest. 

“ Really, Judy.” His face was very grave. 

“ Oh, oh,” she wailed, softly, “ oh, and I 
might have been there — ” 

“ Yes.” 

She shivered and sat up. Her wet hair, 
half braided, trailed its dark length over her 
shoulder. Her eyes were big, and her face 
was white, 

“ What a baby I was,” she said, nervously, 
“ what a baby, Launcelot — not to see the 
danger — ” 

“ You trust to your Uncle Launcelot, next 
time, little girl, and don’t get fussy,” was the 
big boy’s way of stopping her thanks. 

“ I will,” she promised, and the smile she 
gave him meant more than the words. 

“ It has stopped raining,” said Anne from 
the door. 

The cool spring air blew across the fields 
softly, bringing with it the fresh smell of the 
sodden earth and the scent of the wet pines. 




TOMMY TOLLIVER : SEAMAN 


77 


“ The Judge will be here in a minute,” 
said Launcelot; “he stayed in the carriage, 
and Perkins put up the curtains, so that they 
managed to keep pretty dry.” 

“ I wonder if there will be room for me to 
ride home ?” Tommy asked. “Iam dead tired.” 

“ I guess so. The Judge has the big wagon 
with the three seats. Pretty long tramp you 
had, didn’t you ? ” and Launcelot looked at 
the boy’s dusty shoes. 

“ Awful,” said Tommy, with a quiver in 
his voice at the remembrance. 

“ Hungry? ” questioned Launcelot, briefly. 

“ Awful,” said Tommy again. “ I haven't 
had a square meal for a week,” and now the 
quiver was intensified. 

Amelia clasped her hands tragically. 
“ Oh, Tommy,” she asked in a stricken tone, 
“ didn’t you almost die ? ” 

But just then Tommy caught Judy’s eye on 
him, and was forced to continue his character 
of bold adventurer. 

“ Oh, a man must expect things like that,” 
he asserted. “ Suppose it had been a desert 
island — ” 



78 


JUDY 


“ Or a shipwreck,” said Amelia, “ with 
bread and water for a week.” 

“ Or pirates,” ventured Nannie. 

“ Oh, pirates,” sniffed the dark young lady 
on the hay; “ there aren’t any pirates now.” 

“ Well, there are shipwrecks,” defended 
Tommy. 

“ Yes, but they are not half as interesting 
as they used to be.” 

“ And desert islands.” 

“ A few maybe. But it is such an old story 
to hear about Robinson Crusoes.” 

Tommy looked blank. He had always 
implicitly believed the marvelous tales of yarn 
spinners, and his soul had been fired by the 
thought of a life of adventure on the deep. 
He had talked to the little girls until they 
had accounted him somewhat of a hero and 
looked to him to perform great feats of 
bravery. 

“ I don’t see any fun in going to sea, then,” 
he said, dolefully, “ if there ain’t any pirates 
and shipwrecks and things like that — ” 

“ It isn’t those things that make you love 
the sea, Tommy,” cried Judy. “ It is the 



TOMMY TOLLIVER : SEAMAN 


79 


smell of it, and the wind, and the wide blue 
water and the wide blue sky. It is something 
in your blood. I don’t believe you really love 
it at all, Tommy Tolliver.” 

She got up from the couch and began to 
gather up her wet hair, and only Launcelot 
saw that she did it to hide her tears. 

But Tommy was blind to her emotion. 
“ Yes, I do,” he asserted, stoutly. “ I do love 
it, and I bet I could find a treasure island if I 
tried.” 

Judy stamped her foot impatiently. “ Oh, 
you couldn’t,” she blazed, “ you couldn’t, 
Tommy Tolliver; you could just go to work 
like a common seaman and get your tobacco and 
your grog, and be frozen and stiff in the winter 
storms and hot and weary in the summer ones. 
But if you really loved the sea you wouldn’t 
care — you wouldn’t care, just so you could be 
rocked to sleep by it at night, and wake to hear 
it ripple against the sides of the boat — ” 

“ Gee — ” said Tommy, open-mouthed at 
this outburst. 

“ Tommy,” said Launcelot, with a glance 
at Judy’s excited face and at the trembling 



80 


JUDY 


hands that could scarcely fasten her hair, “you 
don’t know a sailboat from a scow.” 

“ I do,” cried the indignant Tommy, switch¬ 
ing his attention from Judy to Launcelot, with 
whom he was deep in the argument when the 
carriage came. 

The Judge read Tommy a little lecture as 
he welcomed him back, and then he ordered 
Perkins to give the runaway something to eat, 
and thereby tempered justice with mercy. 
And as Tommy had expected the scolding 
and had not expected the good things, it is to 
be feared that the latter made the greater 
impression. 

“ And how is my girl ? ” asked the Judge, 
beaming on Judy. 

“ All right,” said Judy, and tucked her hand 
into his, “ only I am a little tired, grandfather.” 

“ Of course you are. Of course you are,” 
said the Judge. “ We must go right home. 
Perkins and I will sit on the front seat, and you 
can all crowd in behind — I guess there will he 
room enough.” 

“ Oh, I say,” said Launcelot, as Tommy 
and Anne sat down on the floor at the back. 



TOMMY TOLLIVER : SEAMAN 


81 


with their feet on the step, “ that won't do. 
You sit with Judy, Anne.” 

But Anne shook her head. 

“ Tommy and I are going to sit here,” she 
said. “ He wants me to tell him all the news.” 

But that was not all that Tommy wanted, 
for when they were alone and unseen by those 
in the front of the wagon, he opened a hand¬ 
kerchief which he had carried knotted into a 
bundle. 

“ I brought you some things. They ain’t 
much, but I thought you would like to have 
them.” 

There were a half-dozen pink and white 
shells, a starfish, and a few pretty pebbles. 

“ I picked them up on the beach,” said 
Tommy, “ and I thought you might like 
them.” 

“ It was awfully good of you to think of me,” 
said little Anne, gratefully. 

“ I wanted to buy you something,” apolo¬ 
gized Tommy. “ There was some lovely 
jewelry made out of fish-scales, but I didn’t 
have a cent to spare.” 

“ I would rather have these, really, Tommy,” 



82 


JUDY 


said Anne, with appreciation, “ because you 
found them yourself.” 

She tied them up carefully in her little clean 
white handkerchief, and then she folded her 
hands in her lap and told Tommy everything 
that had happened since he left home. 

The sky was red with the blaze of the set¬ 
ting sun when the carriage started. Over¬ 
head the crows were flying in a straight black 
line to the woods to roost. As Anne talked 
on, the fireflies began to shine against the blue- 
gray of the twilight; then came darkness and 
the stars. 

“ It seems awfully good to be at home,” 
confessed Tommy, as the lights began to 
twinkle in the nearest farmhouse, “ if only 
father won’t scold.” 

“ I think he will scold, Tommy — he was 
awfully angry — but your mother will be so 
pleased.” 

“ It was horrid sleeping out at night and 
tramping days.” Tommy was unburdening 
his soul. It was so easy to tell things to gentle, 
sympathetic Anne. “ And the men around the 
wharf were so rough — ” 



TOMMY TOLLIVER : SEAMAN 


83 


“ I am sure you won’t want to go again,” 
said little Anne, “ not for a long time, 
Tommy.” 

Tommy looked around cautiously. He 
didn’t want Judy to hear, somehow. He was 
afraid of her teasing laugh. Then he leaned 
down close to Anne’s ear: 

“ I’ll stay here for awhile, Anne.” 

“ I’m so glad, Tommy,” said Anne, with a 
sigh of relief. 

But as they drove into the great gateway, 
and the lights from the big house shone out in 
welcome, Tommy sighed: 

“ But I would like to find a treasure island, 
Anne,” he said. 



CHAPTER VIII 


A WHITE SUNDAY 



NNE was feeling very important. She 
was wrapped in a pale blue kimona of 
Judy’s, and she had had her breakfast 


in bed! 

Piled up ten deep at her side were books — 
a choice collection from the Judge’s bookcases, 
into which she dipped here and there with 
sighs of deep content and anticipation. 

At the end of the room was a mirror, and 
Anne could just see herself in it. It was a dis¬ 
tracting vision, for Judy had done Anne’s hair 
up that morning, and had puffed it out over 
her ears and had tied it with broad black rib¬ 
bon, and this effect, in combination with the 
sweeping blue robe, made Anne feel as inter¬ 
esting as the heroine of a book — and she had 
never expected that! 

Judy in a rose-pink kimona lay on the couch, 

84 


A WHITE SUNDAY 


85 


looking out of the window. The peace of the 
Sabbath was upon the world; and the house 
was very still. 

Suddenly with a “ click ” and a “ whirr-rr,” 
the doors of the little carved clock on the wall 
flew open and a cuckoo came out and piped 
ten warning notes. 

“ Goodness,” cried Anne, and shut her book 
with a bang, “ it is almost church time, and 
we aren’t dressed.” 

But Judy did not move. “ We are not 
going to church,” she said, lazily. 

Not going to church! Anne faced Judy in 
amazement. Never since she could remember 
had she stayed away from church — except 
when she had had the measles and the 
mumps! 

“ I told grandfather last night that we should 
be too tired,” explained Judy, “ and he won’t 
expect us to go.” 

“ Oh,” said Anne, and picked up her book, 
luxuriating in the prospect of a whole morning 
in which to read. 

She wasn’t quite comfortable, however. 
She was not a bit tired, and she had never felt 



86 


JUDY 


better in her life — and yet she was staying 
away from church. 

But the book she had opened was a volume 
of Dickens’ Christmas stories, and in three 
minutes she was carried away from the little 
town of Fairfax to the heart of old London, 
and from the warmth of spring to the bitter¬ 
ness of winter, as she listened with Toby Veck 
to the music of the chimes that rang from the 
belfry tower. 

It seemed only a part of the tale, therefore, 
when the bell of Fairfax church pealed out the 
first warning of the Sunday service to all 
the countryside. 

<c Ding dong, din, all come in, all come in,” 
the bell had said to Anne since childhood, and 
now it called her, until it silenced the crashing 
voices of the bells of old London, and she had 
to listen. 

She laid down her book. “ The church bell 
is ringing,” she said to Judy. 

“ I hear it,” said Judy, indifferently. 

Anne stood up — with a sidelong glance at 
the enchanting vision in the mirror. “ I 
think I ought to go,” she hesitated. 



A WHITE SUNDAY 


87 


Judy turned to look at her. 

“ Don’t be so good, Anne,” she said, with 
a teasing laugh; “ be wicked like I am, just 
for one day — ” 

“ You are not wicked.” 

“ Well, I haven’t a proper sense of duty.” 

“ You have too. You just like to say such 
things, Judy, just to shock pepple.” 

Which shows that in two days, wise little 
Anne had found Judy out! 

“ Well, I’m not going to church, anyhow,” 
and Judy settled back and closed her eyes. 

Anne’s book was open at the fascinating 
place where Toby Veck eats his dinner on the 
church steps; the deep rose-cushioned chair 
opened its wide arms in comfortable invita¬ 
tion. It was the little girl’s first taste of the 
temptation of ease, — and she yielded. But 
as she picked up her book again, she soothed 
her conscience with the righteous resolve — 
“ I will go to service this afternoon.” 

As she settled back, the girl reflected in the 
mirror looked at her. 

“ Your hair looks beautiful,” said the re¬ 
flection. 



88 


JUDY 


Anne dropped her eyes to her book. 

Presently she raised them. 

“ If only the people in church could see,” 
said the charming reflection. 

Anne imagined the sensation she would 
make as she walked up the aisle. None of 
the girls in Fairfax or the country around had 
ever worn their hair puffed over their ears or 
tied with broad black ribbon. There would 
be a little flutter, and during church time the 
girls would look at nothing else, and it would 
be delightful to feel that for once she, little 
plain Anne Batcheller, was the center of 
attraction. 

She dropped her book. “ I think I will go, 
after all,” she said virtuously, and Judy, not 
knowing her motive, looked at her with 
envy. 

“ You are a good little thing, Anne,” she 
said, and at the praise Anne’s face flamed. 

She dressed hurriedly, in her one white 
dress, with a sigh for the becomingness of the 
blue kimona. When she was ready to tie on 
her old hat, she went to the mirror. 

“ It is because your hair is so pretty that 



A WHITE SUNDAY 


89 


you are going to church,” said the reflection, 
accusingly. 

“ It is because of my conscience,” defended 
Anne, but she did not dare to meet the eyes in 
the mirror, and she turned away quickly. 

“ You look awfully nice,” Judy assured her, 
as Anne said “ Good-by.” “ Take my blue 
parasol. It is on the parlor sofa. Go and 
be good for both of us, Annekins.” 

Anne ran down-stairs to the great dim room. 
There were four mirrors in the parlor, and 
each mirror seemed to say to the little girl as 
she passed, “ It is because of your hair,” and 
when she had picked up the pretty parasol, 
the mirrors said again, as she passed them 
going back, “It is because of your hair, oh, 
Anne, it is because of your hair that you are 
going to church! ” 

The hands of the big clock in the hall were 
on eleven as Anne opened the front door — 
and as she stepped out into the glare of sun¬ 
shine, the church bell rang for the last time. 

Anne loved the sweet old bell. Even when 
she had been ill, she had been able to hear just 
the end of its distant peal — like the ringing 



90 


JUDY 


of a fairy chime, and when she was very little, 
the time she had the mumps, she had thought 
of it as being up in the clouds, calling the angels 
to worship. 

She listened to it for a moment, standing 
perfectly still on the path, then she went back 
into the house, and laid the parasol carefully 
on the sofa. After that she ran quickly up¬ 
stairs, untying her hat-strings as she went. 

“ What in the world are you doing ? ” asked 
Judy in amazement, as Anne pulled out hair¬ 
pins, and took the big black bow from her 
looped-up hair. 

“ I was thinking too much about it,” said 
Anne, soberly. “ I shouldn’t have heard a 
word of the sermon if I had worn my hair 
that way,” and she went on braiding it into 
its customary tight and unbecoming pigtails. 

“ Well, of all things,” ejaculated Judy, 
gazing at her spellbound. 

But when Anne had gone, Judy stood up 
and watched her from the window. “ What 
a queer little thing she is,” she murmured, as 
the bobbing figure went up and down the vil¬ 
lage path, “ what a queer little thing she is.” 



A WHITE SUNDAY 


91 


But somehow the actions of the queer girl 
distracted her mind so that she could not go 
back to her attitude of lazy indifference. She 
had thought Anne a little commonplace until 
now; but it had not been a commonplace 
thing, that changing from prettiness to plain¬ 
ness. She even wondered if Anne had not 
done a finer act than she could have done her¬ 
self. 

“ She is a queer little thing,” she said again, 
thoughtfully, and after a long pause, “ but 
she is good — ” 

She went to her wardrobe and took out a 
white dress. Then she got out her hat and 
gloves and laid them on the bed. And then 
she sat and looked at them, and then she began 
to dress. 

And so it came about that Fairfax church 
had that morning two sensations. In the first 
place Anne Batcheller came in late for the 
only time in her life, and in the second place, 
when the service was half over, a slender, dis¬ 
tinguished maiden in a violet-wreathed white 
hat, slipped along the aisle, flashing a 
glance at Anne as she passed, and smiling 



92 


JUDY 


at the delighted Judge as she entered the 
pew. 

She fixed her eyes on the minister — and 
straightway forgot Anne and the Judge and 
Fairfax, for the minister was reading the 
107 th Psalm, and the words that fell on Judy’s 
ears were pregnant with meaning to this daugh¬ 
ter of a sailor — “ They that go down to the 
sea in ships — ” 

Dr. Grennell was a plain man, a man of 
rugged exterior — but he was a man of spirit¬ 
ual power — and he knew his subject. His 
father had been a sea-captain, and back of that 
were generations of Newfoundland fishermen 
— men who went out in the glory of the morn¬ 
ing to be lost in the mists of the evening — men 
who worked while women wept — men to 
whom this Psalm had been the song of hope — 
women to whom it had been the song of com¬ 
forting. 

To Judy the sea meant her father. It had 
taken him away, it would bring him back some 
day, and was not this man saying it, as he 
ended his sermon, “ He bringeth them into 
their desired haven — ” ? 



A WHITE SUNDAY 


93 


Dr. Grennell had never seen Judy, but he 
knew the tragedy in the Judge’s life, and as 
she listened to him, Judy’s face told him who 
she was. 

She went straight up to him after church. 

“ I am Judy Jameson,” she said, “ and I 
want to tell you how much I liked the sermon.” 

The doctor looked down into her moved 
young face. “ I am the son of a sailor,” he 
said, “ and I love the sea — ” 

“ I love it — ” she said, with a catch of her 
breath, “ and it is not cruel — is it ? ” 

“No — ” he began. But with a man of 
his fiber the truth must out; “not always,” he 
amended, and took her hands in his, “ not 
always — ” 

“ And men do come back,” she said, 
eagerly; “ the one you told about in your 
sermon — ” 

He saw the hope he had raised. “ Yes, 
men do come back — but not always, 
Judy.” 

Her lip quivered. “ Let me believe it,” 
she pleaded, and in that moment, Judy’s face 
foreshadowed the earnestness of the woman 



94 


JUDY 


she was to be. “ Let me believe that my 
father will come some day — ” 

“ Indeed, I will,” said the doctor, and there 
was a mist in his eyes as he clasped her hand, 
“ and you must let me be your friend, Judith, 
as I was your father’s.” 

“ I shall be glad — ” she said, simply, and 
then and there began a friendship that 
some day was to bring to Judy her greatest 
happiness. 

That afternoon the Judge and Judy drove 
Anne home. 

“ It seems just like a dream,” said Anne, as 
they came in sight of the little gray house, with 
Belinda chasing butterflies through the 
clover, and Becky Sharp on the lookout 
in the plumtree. “ It seems just like a 
dream — the good times and all, since Friday, 
Judy.” 

“ A good dream or a bad dream, Anne- 
kins ? ” asked Judy. 

“ Oh, a good one, a lovely dream, and you 
are the Princess in it, Judy,” said the adoring 
Anne. 

“ Well, you are the good little fairy god- 



A WHITE SUNDAY 


95 


mother/’ said Judy. “ Isn’t she good, grand¬ 
father P ” 

“ Oh, I am not,” said Anne, greatly embar¬ 
rassed at this overwhelming praise, “ I am 
not — ” 

“ I never could have changed my hair,” 
affirmed Judy. 

“What’s that?” asked the Judge. 

“ Oh, a little secret,” said Judy, smiling. 
“ Shall I tell him, Anne ? ” 

“ No, indeed,” Anne got very red, “ no, 
indeed, Judy Jameson.” 

There was a little pause, and then the Judge 
said: 

“ I am sorry the picnic was such a failure.” 

“ Oh, but it wasn’t,” cried Judy, “ it wasn’t 
a failure.” 

Anne and the Judge stared at her. “ Did 
you enjoy it, Judy ? ” they asked in one breath. 

“ Of course I did,” said the calm young lady. 

“ But the rain,” said the Judge. 

“ That was exciting.” 

“ And your fainting — ” said Anne. 

“ Just an episode,” said Judy, wafting it 
away with a flirt of her finger-tips. 



96 


JUDY 


“ And Amelia, and Nannie, and Tommy, 
did you like them ? ” asked Anne. 

“ Oh, Amelia is funny, and Nannie is clever, 
and Tommy is a curiosity. Oh, yes, I liked 
them,’’ summed up Judy. 

“ And Launcelot — ” 

Judy smiled an inscrutable smile, as she 
pulled her hat low over her sparkling eyes. 

“ He’s bossy,” she began, slowly, “ and we 
are sure to quarrel if we see much of each 
other — but he is interesting — and I think I 
shall like him, Anne.” 

And then Belinda and Becky discovered 
them, and made for their beloved mistress, 
and conversation on the picnic or any other 
topic was at an end. 



CHAPTER IX 


A BLUE MONDAY 

T HERE was a noisy scrambling in the 
vines outside of Anne’s window early 
on Monday morning, and the little 
maid opened her eyes to see Belinda’s white 
head peeping over the sill, and Belinda’s white 
paws holding on like grim death to the ledge. 

“ You darling,” cried Anne, sitting up, 
“ come here,” and Belinda with a plaintive 
mew made one last effort, pulled herself into 
the room, and flew to her mistress’ arms. 

“Where’s Becky?” asked Anne, wonder¬ 
ing why the tame crow did not follow, for in 
spite of their constant feuds, the two pets were 
inseparable. 

Belinda blinked sagely, while from a shad¬ 
owy corner of the room came a sepulchral 
croak. 

“ Are you there, Becky ? ” called Anne, 

97 


98 


JUDY 


peering into the darkness, and with a flap and 
a flutter, Becky swooped from the top of the 
bookcase, where she had been perched for a 
half-hour, waiting for Anne to wake. 

Anne’s bookcase was the one thing of value 
in the little house. It was of rich old ma¬ 
hogany, with diamond-shaped panes in its 
leaded doors, and behind the doors were books 
— not many of them, but very choice ones, 
culled from a fine library which had been sold 
when ruin came to Anne’s grandfather and 
father one disastrous year. 

It happened, therefore, that Anne had read 
much of poetry and history, and the lives of 
famous people, to say nothing of fairy-tales 
and legends, so that in the companionship of 
her books and pets, she had missed little in 
spite of her poverty and solitary life. 

“ How good it is to be at home,” she said, 
as the sunlight, creeping around the room, 
shone on the green cover of a much-thumbed 
book of French fairy-tales, and then slanted 
off to touch the edge of a blue and gold Ten¬ 
nyson ; “ how good it is to be at home.” 

“ How good it is to be at home,” she said 




Anna Tied On Her Hat and Went Out Into the 

Garden 
































A BLUE MONDAY 


99 


again, as followed by Belinda and Becky, she 
came, a half-hour later, into the sunlit kitchen, 
where the little grandmother, smiling and rosy, 
was pouring the steaming breakfast food into 
a blue bowl. 

“ I was afraid you might find it dull,” said 
the little grandmother, as she kissed her^ 
“ after the good times at the Judge’s.” 

“ Oh, I did have such lovely times,” sighed 
Anne, blissfully. She had sat up late in the 
moonlight the night before, telling her grand¬ 
mother of them. “ But they didn’t make up 
for you and Becky and Belinda and the little 
gray house,” and she hugged the little grand¬ 
mother tightly while Belinda and Becky cir¬ 
cled around them in great excitement, mingled 
with certain apprehensions for the waiting 
breakfast. 

“ But I do hate to start to school again,” 
said Anne, when she finished breakfast, and 
had given Belinda a saucer of milk and Becky 
a generous piece of corn bread. 

“ Are the children going to speak their 
pieces this week P ” asked Mrs. Batcheller, as 
Anne tied on her hat and went out into 



100 


JUDY 


the garden to gather some roses for the 
teacher. 

“Yes, on Saturday,” said Anne; “it's 
going to be awfully nice. I have asked 
Launcelot and Judy to come to the entertain¬ 
ment, and they have promised to.” 

“ I am going to be ‘ Cinderella ’ in the 
tableaux,” she went on, as her grandmother 
brought out the tiny lunch-basket and handed 
it to her, “ and Nannie and Amelia are to be 
the haughty sisters. We haven’t found any 
boy yet for the prince. I wish Launcelot went 
to school.” 

“ He knows all that Miss Mary could teach 
him now,” said the little grandmother; “ his 
father is preparing him for college, if they ever 
get money enough to send him there.” 

“ Well, if Launcelot’s violets sell as well 
next winter as they did this, he can go, 
’specially if his mother keeps her boarders all 
summer. He told me so the other day, 
grandmother.” 

“ But he would make a lovely prince,” she 
sighed. “ Judy is going to lend me a dress. 
She has a trunk full of fancy costumes.” 



A BLUE MONDAY 


101 


“ I hope you know your lessons,” said the 
old lady, as Anne, escorted by her faithful 
pets, started off. 

“ Oh, I studied them on Friday, before 
Judy came — how long ago that seems — ” 
and with a rapturous sigh in memory of her 
three happy days, and with a wave of her hand 
to the little grandmother, Anne went on her 
way. 

Tommy Tolliver came to school that morn¬ 
ing in a chastened spirit. He had been lec¬ 
tured by his father, and cried over by his 
mother, and in the darkness of the night he 
had resolved many things. 

But it is not easy to preserve an attitude of 
humility when one becomes suddenly the 
center of adoring interest to twenty-five chil¬ 
dren in a district school. From the babies of 
the A, B, C, class to the big boys in algebra, 
Tommy’s return was an exciting event, and he 
was received with acclaim. 

Hence he boasted and swaggered for them 
as on Saturday he had boasted and swaggered 
for Judy’s admiration. 

“ You ought to go,” he was saying to a 



102 


JUDY 


small boy, as Anne came up, but when he 
caught her reproachful eye on him, he backed 
down, “ but not until you are a man, Jimmie,” 
he temporized. 

During the morning session he was a worry 
and an aggravation to Miss Mary. The little 
girls could look at nothing else, for had not 
Tommy been a sailor, and had he not had 
experiences which would set him apart from 
the commonplace boys of Fairfax? And the 
boys, a little jealous, perhaps, were yet burn¬ 
ing with a desire to be the bosom friend of this 
bold, bad boy, while the luster of his daring 
lasted. 

And so they were all restless and inattentive, 
until finally Miss Mary, who had a headache, 
lost patience. 

“ You are very noisy,” she said, “ and I am 
ashamed of you. I am going to put a list of 
words on the board, and I want you to copy 
them five times, while I take the little folks out 
into the yard for their recess. The rest of you 
don’t deserve any, and will have to wait until 
noon.” 

That was the first piece of injustice to Anne. 



A BLUE MONDAY 


103 


She had been as quiet as a mouse all the morn¬ 
ing, and Miss Mary should have seen it and 
not have punished the innocent with the guilty. 
But Anne was a cheery little soul and never 
thought of questioning Miss Mary’s mandates, 
and so she went on patiently writing with the 
rest. 

Miss Mary stopped in the door long enough 
to issue an ultimatum. 

“ I shall put you on your honor,” she said, 
“ not to talk. And any one who disobeys will 
be punished.” 

And she went out. 

For a little while there was perfect decorum. 
Then Tommy grew restless. Six weeks out 
of school had made sitting still almost impos¬ 
sible. He wiggled around in his seat, and be¬ 
gan to whistle, “ A Life on an Ocean Wave.” 

That was a signal for general disorder 
among the boys. Without speaking a word, 
and so preserving the letter of the rule, if not 
the spirit, they, with Tommy as leader, went 
through various pantomimic performances. 
They hitched up their trousers in seamanlike 
fashion, they pretended to row boats, they spit 



104 


JUDY 


on their hands and hauled in imaginary ropes, 
and as a climax, Tommy danced a hornpipe 
on his toes. 

And then Anne spoke right out — “ Oh, 
Tommy, dont” she said, in an agony of fear 
lest Miss Mary should come in and catch him 
at it. 

But Miss Mary did not come, and the little 
girls giggled and the boys capered, and Anne 
in despair went on writing her words. 

When Miss Mary came back finally, with 
the little people trooping in a rosy row behind 
her, twenty-five virtuous heads were bent over 
twenty-five papers. 

“Did any one speak while I was out?” 
asked the teacher. 

A wave of horror swept over Anne. She 
had not meant to do it, but she had spoken, 
and to try to explain would be to condemn 
Tommy and the rest of the school. 

“ Did any one speak ? ” asked Miss Mary 
again. 

Anne stood up, her face flaming. 

“I — I — did — ” she faltered. 

“ Oh, Anne — ” said Miss Mary, while the 




A BLUE MONDAY 


105 


girls and boys dropped their eyes for very 
shame. 44 Oh, Anne, why did you do 
it — ” 

44 I just did it — ” stammered Anne, who 
would rather have died than have blamed 
Tommy, and Nannie, and Amelia, and the 
rest of her friends. 

44 Well, then,” said Miss Mary, firmly , 44 I’m 
sorry, but you will have to sit on the platform 
the rest of the morning, and I can’t let you 
take part in the Saturday’s entertainment. I 
must have order and I will have it.” 

And that was Miss Mary’s second piece of 
injustice. But then she had a headache, and 
children on Monday mornings are trouble¬ 
some. 

For one hour Anne sat with her head held 
high and her fair little face flushed and burn¬ 
ing. But she did not cry. And Tommy, 
bowed to the ground by his sense of guilt in 
the matter, did not dare to look at the patient, 
suffering martyr. 

It was thus that Launcelot Bart, coming in 
just before twelve o’clock to see Tommy, found 
her. 



106 


JUDY 


As soon as he got Tommy outside of the 
schoolroom he collared him. 

“ What’s the matter with Anne ? ” he de¬ 
manded. 

“ She talked in school,” said Tommy, 
doggedly. 

“ I don’t believe it.” 

“ Well, she did, anyhow.” 

“ Whose fault was it ? ” 

“ Hers, I suppose.” 

“ You don’t suppose anything of the kind. 
Anne Batcheller never broke a rule in her life, 
willingly, and you know it, Tommy Tolliver.” 

The children were coming out of the school¬ 
room in little groups of twos and threes — the 
girls discussing Anne’s martyrdom sympa¬ 
thetically, the boys with hangdog self-con¬ 
sciousness. 

Inside the room, Anne, released from her 
ordeal, had gone to her desk and was sitting 
there with her head up. Her face was white 
now, the little lunch-basket was open before 
her, but the cookie and the apple were un¬ 
touched. 

Launcelot looked in through the window. 



A BLUE MONDAY 


107 


“ Poor little soul,” he murmured. 

And then Tommy blubbered. 

“ It was really my fault, Launcelot,” he 
confessed. 

" What! ” 

Tommy explained. 

“ And you let Anne bear it — you let Anne 
be punished — oh, you miserable — little — 
little — cur,” said the indignant squire of 
dames, in a white heat. 

“ Aw, what could I do ? ” whimpered 
Tommy. 

“Go in and tell Miss Mary,” said Launce* 
lot. 

“ Aw — Launcelot — ” 

“ Go in and tell Miss Mary! ” 

Tommy went. 

But Miss Mary did not wish to be bothered. 

“ I made a rule and Anne broke it,” she 
said, when Tommy tried to straighten things 
out, “ and that is all there is to it. Don’t 
talk about it any more. Tommy,” and she 
dismissed him peremptorily. 

When Tommy told Launcelot the result of 
the interview, the big boy set his lips in 



108 


JUDY 


a firm line, and started off down the dusty 
road. 

He went straight to town and to Judy. 

“ Oh, oh,” said Judy, when she had listened 
to his tale of woe, “ what a mean old thing she 
is — I hate her — ” and her dark eyes flashed. 

“ I don’t think Miss Mary is mean,” said 
Launcelot, “ but the children are restless, and 
she isn’t very strong, and when she feels badly 
she takes it out on the scholars.” 

“ But to punish Anne,” said Judy, and her 
voice trembled, “ dear little Anne — ” 

“ She might at least have listened to 
Tommy’s explanation,” said Launcelot. 

After a pause he said: “ I came to you be¬ 
cause I thought you might go and see Anne 
after school. It would do her a lot of good. 
She will be all broken up.” 

“ I will go to school and get her,” cried 
Judy, eagerly. “ Is it very far? ” 

“ I am afraid you couldn’t walk,” said 
Launcelot, doubtfully. 

“ I’ll drive over in the trap,” said Judy. 
“ Grandfather says I can use Vic whenever I 
want to.” 



A BLUE MONDAY 


109 


“ It was pretty mean of Miss Mary to pile 
it on, I must say,” said Launcelot, as he rose 
to go. “ She might have let Anne be in the 
entertainment.” 

“ What P ” 

“ She isn’t going to let Anne be in it.” 

“Not be 4 Cinderella ? ” Judy’s tone 
was ominous. 

“ No.” 

“ Oh, oh, oh.” Judy’s hands were clenched 
fiercely. “ I’ll get even with her, Launcelot. 
I’ll get even with that teacher yet.” 

Launcelot smiled at her vehemence. 

“ But you can’t,” he said. 

“ Can’t I ? ” with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“ No.” 

“ Wait,” said Judy, and not another word 
could he get out of her on the subject. 

The afternoon dragged along its intermina¬ 
ble length, and Anne, with bursting head, 
thought that it would never end. 

“ Tick, tock,” proclaimed the old school clock, 
as the hands crept slowly to one, to two, to three. 

“ In five minutes I can go,” thought poor 
little Anne wildly, and just then the school- 



110 


JUDY 


room door opened, and on the threshold 
appeared a self-contained young lady in pale 
violet gingham, and the young lady was asking 
for Anne Batcheller! 

“ Judy! ” said Anne’s heart, with a bound, 
but her lips were still. 

Miss Mary had seen the Judge’s grand¬ 
daughter at church the day before, and had 
been much impressed, and now when Judy 
asked sweetly if Anne could go, she gave 
immediate consent. 

“ Of course she may,” she said. “ Anne, 
you are dismissed.” 

But her eyes did not meet Anne’s eyes as she 
said it, for Miss Mary’s head w T as better, and 
she was beginning to wonder if she should not 
have investigated before she condemned Anne 
so harshly. 

Twenty-four heads turned towards the win¬ 
dow as Anne and Judy climbed into the fas¬ 
cinating trap with the fawn cloth cushions, 
and twenty-four pairs of lungs breathed sighs 
of envy, as Judy picked up the reins, and the 
two little girls drove away together in the sun¬ 
shine. 



CHAPTER X 


MISTRESS MARY 


N r o one ever knew how Judy managed 
to get the Judge’s consent, but on 
Wednesday, when the children on 
their way home from school called at the post- 
office for the mail, they found small square 
envelopes addressed to themselves, and each 
envelope contained a card, and on the card 
was written an invitation to every child to be 
present at a lawn party to be given at Judge 
Jameson’s on the following Saturday, from 
one until five o’clock. 

But this was not all. For during the eve¬ 
ning, rumors, started by the wily Launcelot, 
leaked out, that never in the history of Fairfax 
had there been such a party as the one to be 
given by Judge Jameson in honor of his grand¬ 
daughter, Judith, and her friend, Anne 
Batcheller. 


ill 




112 


JUDY 


“ For it is as much Anne’s party as Judy’s,” 
Launcelot stated, as one having authority. 

After the first jubilation, however, the young 
people looked at each other with blank faces. 

“ It is the same afternoon as the school en¬ 
tertainment,” wailed Amelia Morrison. 

“ An’ we’ve got to speak our pieces,” said 
little Jimmie Jones. 

But Nannie May cut the Gordian knot with 
her usual impetuosity. 

“ I am going to Judy’s party,” she declared, 
“ and I am going to get mother to write a note 
to Miss Mary.” 

Many were the notes that went to Miss Mary 
that day. All sorts of excuses were given by 
the ambitious mothers, who would not have 
had their offspring miss the opportunity of 
seeing the inside of the most exclusive house 
in Fairfax for all the school entertainments 
in the world! 

And Miss Mary! 

She had invited the school board and a half- 
dozen pedagogues from neighboring districts. 
She had trained the children until they were 
letter perfect. She had drilled them in their 



MISTRESS MARY 


113 


physical exercises until they moved like ma¬ 
chines, and now at the eleventh hour they 
were fluttering away from her like a flock of 
unruly birds, and she recognized at once that 
Judy had championed Anne’s cause, and that 
in her she had an adversary to be feared. 

In vain she expostulated with the mothers. 

“ Saturday isn’t a regular school-day, you 
know, Miss Mary,” said Mrs. Morrison, sit¬ 
ting down ponderously to argue the question 
with the teacher, “ and of course the Judge 
couldn’t know that it would interfere with 
your plans.” 

Miss Mary was convinced that the Judge 
did know, but she didn’t quite dare to argue 
the question with him. She was conscious 
that she had been over-sefere, and that the 
Judge, who believed in justice first, last, and 
all the time, would not uphold her. 

And so the plans for the party went on. 

“ We will have games,” said Judy, “ and 
we won’t have anything old like ‘ Cinderella.’ 
Has anybody got an idea ? ” 

She and Anne and Launcelot were in the 
Judge’s garden, and it was Thursday evening. 



114 


JUDY 


and there wasn’t a great deal of time to get 
ready for Saturday’s festivities. 

“ We might have some one read poems, and 
have living pictures to illustrate them,” sug¬ 
gested Anne. 

“ What poems ? ” asked Judy, not quite 
sure that she liked the idea. 

“ There are some lovely things in Tenny¬ 
son,” said the little girl; “ there’s the Sleeping 
Beauty for one. You could be the Beauty, 
Judy, and Launcelot could be the prince — it 
would be just lovely — we could have little 
Jimmie Jones for the page, and Nannie and 
Amelia for ladies-in-waiting, and you could 
be asleep on the couch, while some one read: 

“ Year after year unto her feet, 

She lying on her couch alone, 

Across the purple coverlet, 

The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown.” 

Anne quoted with ease, for the little blue 
and gold volume in her bookcase had yielded 
up its treasures to her, and she knew the loved 
verses better than she knew her “ Mother 
Goose.” 



MISTRESS MARY 


115 


“ Oh,” Judy’s eyes were alight, “ how 
lovely that is — I never read that, Anne.” 

“ Well, you hate books, you know,” and 
Anne dimpled at her retort. 

“ I shouldn’t hate that kind,” and Judy 
resolved that she would know more about that 
princess. 

“ And we could have the arrival of the 
prince, and the awakening, and their de¬ 
parture : 

“And o’er the hills and far away, 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 

Beyond the night, across the day, 

Through all the world she followed him,” 

chanted Anne like one inspired. 

Then she blushed and blushed as the as¬ 
tonished Launcelot and Judy praised her. 

“ I never dreamed that you knew so much 
poetry,” cried Launcelot, seeing her in a new 
and more respectful light. 

“ Oh, it just sings itself,” said Anne. 
“ When you read it a few times you can’t help 
reciting it.” 

“ But I am not going to be the only one,” 



116 


JUDY 


said Judy. “ What part will you take, 
Anne ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Who’s your favorite heroine in Tennyson, 
Anne ? ” asked Launcelot. 

“ Elaine.” 

“ Then Elaine it shall be — ” 

“ And you must be Lancelot,” cried Anne, 
eagerly. 

“ But he is Launcelot,” said puzzled Judy. 

Anne and Launcelot laughed. “ Well, you 
see,” said Anne, “ in the poem Elaine is in love 
with a knight named Lancelot, and he doesn’t 
love her, and she dies, and when she is dead 
they put her on a barge and send her io the 
court of King Arthur, where Lancelot is one 
of the knights, and there is a letter to him in 
her hand, and a lily, and it’s lovely,” she fin¬ 
ished breathlessly. 

“We shall have a hard time to build a 
barge,” said Launcelot, with a shake of his 
head. 

“ But we must have that scene, Launcelot,” 
insisted Anne. 

“ Never mind,” said Judy, who believed that 



MISTRESS MARY 


117 


all difficulties could be surmounted in this line, 
“ we will find something. How many pictures 
shall we have for 4 Elaine,’ Anne ? ” 

44 We could have her giving him the 4 red 
sleeve broider’d with pearls,’ and then we 
could have him ill in the cave, and the scene 
in the garden, and at her window when he 
rides away, and then on the barge.” 

44 We’ll have to outline the story,” said 
Launcelot; 44 the poem would be too 
long.” 

44 But we could get in some of it, like the 
little song about Love and Death,” said Anne, 
anxiously, for being too young to know tragedy 
or love, she was yet enamoured by that which 
was beyond her comprehension. 

It took all the next day for them to get things 
ready, but everything went beautifully. Dr. 
Grennel promised to read the poems. Per¬ 
kins, though depressed at the prospect of more 
undignified gayety, gave permission to use the 
dining-room for the tableaux, and the little 
grandmother promised to spend all of Satur¬ 
day with the Judge and his sister, thus giving 
Anne a crowning delight. 



118 


JUDY 


And then, at the last minute, Anne spoiled 
everything! 

“ I can’t bear to think of poor Miss Mary,” 
she sobbed, late on Saturday morning, when 
Judy found her crouched up in the window- 
seat overlooking the garden. 

“ What ? ” 

“ I can’t bear to think about poor Miss 
Mary,” repeated Anne, dabbing her eyes with 
her wet handkerchief. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” asked Launcelot, as 
Judy stood speechless. He was outside of the 
window, where he was helping Perkins place 
the tables and arrange the chairs in the garden. 

Anne’s woebegone face bobbed up over the 
the window-sill. 

“ I can’t bear to think of Miss Mary. All 
alone while we shall be having such a good 
time,” she wailed. “ I wish we could invite 
her.” 

Judy stamped her foot. “ Anne Batch- 
eller,” she cried, tempestuously, “ you are too 
good to live,” and she went out of the room 
like a whirlwind. 

She went straight to the Judge and Mrs. 



MISTRESS MARY 


119 


Batcheller, who were chatting together in the 
dimness and quiet of the great parlor. 

“ I sha’n’t have anything to do with the 
lawn party, grandfather,” she blazed, after she 
had told her story, “ if that teacher is to be 
invited! ” 

But the Judge’s eyes were dreamy. “ Dear 
little tender-heart,” he said. 

“ She teaches us a lesson of forgiveness,” 
said Mrs. Batcheller, who with the Judge had 
deeply resented the treatment accorded Anne 
on that fateful Monday morning. 

“ Perhaps it would be best to ask Miss 
Mary,” ventured the Judge. 

“ If she would come,” said Mrs. Batcheller, 
doubtfully. 

But Judy would not listen to reason or 
argument. 

“ Do you think we ought to back down now,” 
she demanded of Launcelot, who, with Anne, 
had followed her to the parlor to talk things 
over. 

“ No,” he said, slowly, “ I don’t think we 
ought to back down. But I guess we shall 
have to.” 



120 JUDY 


“ Why ? ” 

Launcelot’s eyes went to the sobbing figure 
in the little grandmother’s arms. 

“ We can’t make her unhappy,” he said in 
a low voice. 

“ Anne ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Everything is spoiled now,” said Judy, 
chokingly, “ everything. And I took such 
an interest. I think it’s mean — mean — 
mean — ” 

Her voice grew very shrill, and her face was 
red. Airs. Batcheller started to speak, but 
the Judge raised his hand to stop the untimely 
lecture. 

“ Wait! ” he said. 

Something in his kind old face reminded 
Judy suddenly of the story he had told her just 
a week before — of her grandmother and how 
she had conquered her temper. 

, With a strong effort she kept back the words 
of furious disappointment that she had in¬ 
tended to hurl at these weak-spirited people. 
Then she whisked out of the room and down 
the hall, and presently Launcelot, who had 




MISTRESS MARY 


121 


followed her, came back laughing but mys¬ 
tified. 

“ She is walking around the oval in the 
garden/’ he said, “as fast as she can go, and 
she won’t stop.” 

The Judge slapped his hand on his knee. 
“ By George,” he said, with a sigh of relief, 
“ she’s done it! ” But when Anne asked him 
to explain, he shook his head. “ That’s a secret 
between Judy and me,” he said, “ and I can’t 
tell it,” and over her head he smiled at Mrs. 
Batcheller, who knew the story, and had often 
laughed with Judy’s grandmother over it. 

Judy came in, finally, rosy and breathless. 

“ Oh, invite your Miss Mary if you w T ant 
to,” she panted, as she kissed the tear-streaked 
face. “ But don’t expect me to act too saint¬ 
like. I am not made of the same stuff that 
you are, Anne.” 

“ You are a brick,” Launcelot pronounced 
later, when they were alone in the dining¬ 
room superintending the putting up of the 
stage; “ it was harder for you to give up than 
for Anne.” 

“ No e I’m not a brick/’ said Judy, a little 



m 


JUDY 


wearily, “ I am just hateful. But I do try,” 
and his praise meant much to her, and helped 
her afterwards. 

Miss Mary sat alone and discouraged when 
the note of invitation was handed to her. She 
had sent letters to the school board and the 
other teachers, pleading “ unavoidable post¬ 
ponement,” and now she was correcting papers 
with an aching head. 

“ Dear Miss Mary,” — said Anne’s little 
note, — “ Please come to our party to-day. 
It is going to be very nice, and we are sorry 
we set the same day as the school entertain¬ 
ment, and we won’t be happy if you are not 
here. Please forgive us, and come. Your 
affectionate scholar, Anne.” And below the 
Judge had added, “ I am anxious to supple¬ 
ment Anne’s invitation and apology and to 
say with her, ‘ Please forgive us and come.’ ” 

“ I won’t go,” said Miss Mary at first, 
bitterly. 

But when she had read the little letter again, 
she changed her mind. 

“ She is a dear child,” she said. 

And she washed her face and combed her 



MISTRESS MARY 


123 


hair, and put on her best white dress and her 
new summer hat with the roses in it, and 
went out looking young and pretty and with 
her headache forgotten. 

And when she arrived at the Judge’s she 
was escorted to a seat of honor in the front row, 
with the Judge on one side, and the little 
grandmother on the other, and with the 
astonished children smiling welcomes to her 
as she went up the aisle. 



CHAPTER XI 




THE PRINCESS AND THE LILY MAID 

A S the children arrived they were shown 
at once into the great dining-room, 
where at one end a stage had been 
erected and a curtain hung, from behind 
which came the sounds of hammering and 
subdued directions, given in Launcelot's 
voice. 

“ Amelia Morrison and Nannie May are 
in it,” explained Tommy who had yearned for 
an important part, but Judy had declared 
against him. 

“ You shouldn’t have been asked at all,” 
she said, witheringly, 44 if it hadn’t been that 
Anne begged that you might. You acted 
dreadfully the other day. Anne wouldn’t 
have been punished if you had spoken right 
out. Tommy, and had said that it was your 
fault.” 


124 


PRINCESS AND THE LILY MAID 125 


Aw— yes, she would, too,” stammered 
Tommy. 

“ I never could stand a coward,” was 
Judy’s fling, and at that Tommy subsided. 

Behind the scenes Anne, in an entrancing 

o 

trailing gown of pale blue with pearls wound 
in her long fair braids was trying to get 
Jimmie Jones to shut his eyes without opening 
his mouth. 

46 But I always sleep with my mouth open,” 
persisted Jimmie, who, in spite of his yellow 
curls and his page’s costume of green satin, 
was at heart just plain boy. 

“ Well, you shouldn’t,” scolded Anne, as 
she tripped over her train. “ You will simply 
spoil the picture. Just see how nice Judy 
and Amelia and Nannie look.” 

On the couch lay Judy all in soft, shining* 
satiny white, her dark hair spreading over 
the pillow, and one hand under her cheek; 
and at each end, Nannie and Amelia, in rose 
color and in violet, blissfully happy, and, 
though their eyes were closed, wide awake to 
the charms of the situation. 

“ Now — ready,” whispered Anne, as Dr< 



126 


JUDY 


GrennelPs fine voice rolled out the last lines 
of the 44 Prologue.” 44 Now — ” and the 
curtain went up on 44 The Sleeping Prin¬ 
cess.” 

Jimmie’s mouth flew open and Amelia 
smiled, but little cared the gaping audience 
for such trifles. Breathless they stared as 
one scene followed another. Launcelot was a 
Prince that set all the little girls’ hearts 
a-flutter, as he knelt beside the couch, with 
a great bunch of dewy roses in his arms, 
which, in the next picture, lay all scattered 
over Judy, when she waked and gazed at him 
dreamily. Jimmie came out strongly at this 
point, with a prodigious yawn that almost 
broke him in two, and was so expressive of 
great weariness that little Bobbie Green, his 
bosom friend, was carried away by the realism 
of it, and asked in awe, 44 Did he really 
sleep a hundred years ? 99 and was not quite 
brought back to earth by Tommy Tolliver’s 
exclamation, 44 Why you saw him awake this 
morning, Bobbie, didn’t you ? ” 

The Prince and the Princess went away 
together at last; she with a long velvet cloak 



PRINCESS AND THE LILY MAID 127 


covering the whiteness of her gown, and a hat 
with white plumes, and he with a sword at 
his side, that made Tommy Tolliver turn 
green with envy. 

Jimmie Jones came down and sat by Bobbie 
Green during the intermission, in which 
lemonade was passed and the pictures 
discussed. 

Bobbie gazed upon him as one who has 
come from a strange country. 

“ Say, say,” he whispered eagerly, “how 
could you sleep when we was makin’ all that 
noise, Jimmie — clappin’ ? ” 

Jimmie took a long blissful gulp of lemon¬ 
ade, and then fished out the strawberry from 
the bottom of the glass. “ Ho,” he said, 
“ that wasn’t nothin’. It wasn’t really me 
that was asleep, it was just my eyes,” and 
Bobbie, though still hazy, accepted the ex¬ 
planation and fished for his strawberry in 
imitation of his distinguished friend and 
actor, Jimmie Jones! 

Most of the children had read parts of 
“ Elaine ” at school, and they “ Oh-ed ” and 
“ Ah-ed ” as the fair-haired heroine appeared. 




128 


JUDY 


Anne was very sweet, very appealing, as she 
went through the sad little scenes, and when 
at last she sat at the window. Dr. Grennell 
did not read Elaine’s song, but Anne sang 
it, to Judy’s accompaniment, played softly 

behind the scenes. 

* 

“ Sweet is true love, tho’ given in vain, in vain; 

And sweet is death who puts an end to pain: 

I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.” 

And all the little girls wept into their hand¬ 
kerchiefs, while the boys sniffed audibly. 

“ Bless their hearts,” said Mrs. Batcheller 
to Miss Mary, “ it’s too bad to have them 

5 9 

cry. 

But the Judge, who was a keen observer of 
human nature, shook his head. “ A little sad¬ 
ness now and then won’t hurt them, ” he said. 
“ It is the shadows that make us appreciate 
the sunshine, you know.” 

There was a long wait before the curtain 
was raised on the last picture in the poem: 
“ The dead steer’d by the dumb.” 

The barge had been a problem, until Judy 
solved it by placing an ironing-board across 



PRINCESS AND THE LILY MAID 129 


two chairs, and draping the whole into the 
semblance of a boat-like bier. 

Perkins, under protest, was pressed into 
service as the dumb boatman, and with a 
long beard of white cotton, and a cloak and 
hood of funereal black, he was a picturesque 
and pessimistic figure. 

, 44 It’s so wobbly,” said Anne, powdered 
with corn-starch to an interesting paleness 
and draped all in white. 44 It’s so wobbly, 
Judy,” and she shrieked softly, as she laid 
herself flat on the ironing-board. 

44 Steady, ” advised Launcelot, as he shifted 
her carefully to the center, 44 now for the lily 
and the letter, Judy,” and he threw over the 
prostrate Anne a yellow silk shawl of Judy’s 
which was to serve as cloth of gold. 

44 Now, Perkins,” and Perkins climbed to 
the high stool, which had been set in an arm¬ 
chair and formed the bow of the boat. 

44 If I falls, I falls,” said Perkins, classic¬ 
ally, 44 and my blood be on your head, sir,” 
and while Judy writhed in agonies of laughter, 
Launcelot turned off the lights and adjusted 
the great lantern, which was to throw on 



130 


JUDY 


the barge the effect of moonlight, while all 
else was to be in shadow. 

The illusion from the front was perfect. 
Even the green piano cover with its dots of 
white cotton foamed up around the barge 
like real waves. 

44 How lovely she is,” whispered all the 
children, as Anne lay there so still and quiet, 
with her fair hair streaming over the blackness 
of the bier. 

44 I don’t like it. I don’t like it,” whimpered 
Bobbie Green, whose imagination was a thing 
to be reckoned with. 44 I don’t like it. Anne, 
oh, Anne — ” 

And Anne’s tender heart could not with¬ 
stand that cry of fear. 

44 I’m ail right, darling,” she said, right 
out, and then the tension was broken, and all 
the children laughed, with relief, as Elaine 
sat up smiling and waving her hand to them. 

44 Bobbie Shafto ” came next and was a dig 
at Tommy. 

Judy’s great marine picture made the back¬ 
ground, and on the shore little Mary Morrison 
bade little Jimmie Jones 44 Good-bye ” with 



PRINCESS AND THE LILT MAID 131 


heartrending sobs. But this Bobbie Shafto 
never went to sea. As picture followed picture, 
he was shown pulling at a rowing machine, 
sailing toy ships in a tub, fishing in a pail, 
and digging for treasure in a tiny sand pile — 
and after each funny scene, the curtain would 
drop, and tiny Mary Morrison would come 
to the front and wail: 

“ Tommy Shafto’s gone to sea, 

Silver buckles on his knee, 

He’ll come back and marry me, 

Pretty Tommy Shafto! ” 

It brought down the house, but Tommy 
got very red and murmured in Bobbie’s ear 
that “ They might think it was funny, but he 
didn’t,” which Bobbie Green did not under¬ 
stand in the least. 

“ That’s all,” and Launcelot gave a sigh of 
relief, as Mary and Jimmie made their bows 
amid uproarious applause. He had been stage 
manager as well as actor, and he was tired. 

“ No, no,” whispered Judy, as she came on 
the stage dressed as a fishermaid, and dragging 
a great net behind her. “No, no. Dr. Gren- 



132 


JUDY 


nell is going to read 4 Break, break, break.’ 
I sha’n’t need any change of scene. Just leave 
the big picture, and put this net and the shells 
around, and smooth out that sand to look like 
the beach. 5 ’ 

She was making a rock out of two boxes 
covered with a gray mackintosh as she spoke. 
“ Now, if you could just whistle like the wind,” 
she said. “ Do you think you could, Launcelot ? ” 

“ I’ll try,” and he did whistle, so effectively, 
that he did not get his breath for five minutes. 

Judy had read the poem one day when she 
was helping Anne to plan the pictures, and 
it had, like all songs of the sea, sung itself 
into her heart. 

Again the big picture with its stretch of sea 
made the background, and Judy sat on the 
rock looking at it. The plaid lining of her 
mackintosh showed, and the wind sounded 
wheezy, but the pathos in Judy’s face, the 
tragedy in her eyes as the third verse was read: 

" And the stately ships go on, 

To the haven under the hill, 

But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still! w i 

ft 




PRINCESS AND THE LILY MAID 133 


made the Judge wipe his eyes, and Mrs. 
Batcheller say hurriedly, “ She should not 
have done it. She should not.” 

And behind the dropped curtain Judy was 
saying to Dr. Grennell, “ I want to go back 
to the sea. I hate the country. I want to go 
back to the wind and waves. I can’t stand it 
here.” 

But the doctor put his hand on her shoulder 
and looked down into her troubled face with 
grave eyes. 

“ Not now,” he said, quietly, “ not while 
your grandfather needs you, Judy.” 

Judy drew a long breath, then she put out 
her hand as if to make him a promise. 

“ No, not while grandfather needs me, ” 
she said, “ not while he needs me, Doctor.” 



CHAPTER XII 


LORDLY LAUNCELOT 

T HE children of the town of Fairfax 
never forgot that afternoon at Judge 
Jameson’s. For years they had 
peeped through the hedge at the fascinating 
Cupid of the Fountain, but never had one of 
them put foot in the old garden, with its 
mysterious nooks and formal paths, w T hich lay 
in the shadow of the Great House. 

But to-day with its gipsy band playing wild 
music, with its gaily decorated tables, its awe¬ 
inspiring Perkins, — who with his satellites 
offered food fit for the gods, — with its riot 
of spring color, it was beyond their wildest 
dreams. 

Before they went home they all assembled 
again in the great dining-room from which 
the chairs had been taken, and on the 
polished floor every one, old and young, 

134 


LORDLY LAUNCELOT 


135 


danced the Virginia Reel, the Judge leading 
with Miss Mary, and Mrs. Batcheller bring¬ 
ing up at the end of the line with Jimmie 
Jones. 

“ It was a success, wasn’t it,” said Launce- 
lot, when the children had trooped away, and 
Anne and Mrs. Batcheller and the smiling 
Miss Mary had been driven home in the 
Judge’s carriage. 

“ Yes,” said Judy, abstractedly, watching 
the musicians, who were having their refresh¬ 
ments under the lilac bushes. 

“ What handsome faces they have,” she 
said, “ so dark and wild. And their lives are 
so free — grandfather says they just roam 
around from place to place, living in the 
woods and picking up a little money here and 
there. He says their camp is just outside, 
and when he was driving yesterday, he saw 
one of them playing and asked them if they 
wouldn’t come here to-day.” 

When the gipsies had finished they rose 
and went down the path towards the gate. 
They w~ere talking and laughing with a 
vivacious play of feature and a recklessness 



IS 6 


JUDY 


of gesture that proclaimed them the un¬ 
conscious children of nature. 

“ How I wish I could go with them,” said 
Judy, impulsively, as the young leader of the 
band took off his hat and waved them a 
debonair “ good-bye.” “ How I wish I could 
go! ” 

But Launcelot shook his head. “ It’s all 
very romantic from the outside,” he said, 
“ but the women don’t have a very good 
time. They tramp the dusty roads in summer 
and almost freeze in their open wagons in 
the winter, and they bear most of the burdens. 
Those men are handsome, all right, but some 
of them are brutes.” 

As he spoke the leader of the band came 
back up the path. 

“ Come to our camp, pretty lady,” he said, 
flashing his dark eyes upon Judy, “ and our 
queen will tell your fortune. For a piece of 
silver she will tell you the things that are past 
and the things that are to come.” 

“ Oh, will she ? ” asked Judy, eagerly. 
“ Will you be at the camp next Saturday ? ” 

“ We will be there until you come,” said 



LORDLY LAUNCELOT 


137 


the gipsy, with a glance of admiration at her 
vivid face. 

But Launcelot’s hand was clenched at his 
side. He did not like that fellow’s face or 
his manner, he told himself, and Judy should 
not go near that camp if he could help it. 

“ You don’t want to have your fortune 
told, Judy,” he said, a little roughly. 

Judy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “ I 
do,” she said. “ It’s fun.” 

“ It’s silly,” contended Launcelot, doggedly. 

The gipsy’s eyes flashed from one to the 
other. 

“ You will come,” he urged, ignoring 
Launcelot, and addressing his question to 
Judy. 

" Yes.” 

“ On Saturday ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Good; w T e will welcome you, pretty lady.” 
And with a defiant glance at the big angry 
boy, the dark Hungarian swung down the 
path, singing as he went. 

“ You are not going,” said Launcelot, when 
the man was out of sight. 



138 


JUDY 


44 I am.” 

44 Then I shall tell the Judge.” 

44 Telltale.” 

Launcelot stood up and glowered at her. 

44 Who do you think will go with you ? ” 

44 You.” There was a laugh in Judy’s 
eyes, as she made the impertinent answer. 

44 1 won’t.” 

44 Not if I ask you ? ” 

44 Not under any circumstances. It isn’t 
the place for you, Judy.” 

Then he sat down beside her. 44 Look 
here,” he said, in a wheedling tone, 44 if I 
were really your big brother, I wouldn’t let 
you go. Can’t you let me order you around a 
little, just as if I were — ? ” 

Judy caught her breath. Why would he 
use that tone? It always made her feel as if 
she wanted to give in — but she wouldn’t. 

44 I am going,” she said, slowly, although 
she did not look at him, 44 if I have to go 
alone.” 

44 Then I shall tell the Judge.” 

44 Oh,” Judy’s tone was cutting, 44 I always 
did hate boys.” 



LORDLY LAUNCELOT 


139 


For a moment Launcelot’s face flamed, then 
most unexpectedly he laughed. 

“ You don’t hate me, Judy,” he said, 
“ you know you don’t.” 

“ I do.” 

“ No, you don’t,” he went on, and there 
was no anger in his voice, only good-natured 
tolerance that made Judy’s temper seem very 
childish. “ You are angry now. But you are 
not that kind of girl — ” 

“ What kind of girl ? ” 

“ Changeable.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know.” 

But Launcelot insisted. “ You are not 
changeable, Judy, and you know it.” 

And finally Judy gave in. “ No, I’m not, 
and I don’t hate you, but I hate to be told I 
can’t do things.” 

“ You will have to get used to it — ” 
daringly. 

“ Oh — you needn’t think you can order 
me around, Launcelot, in that lordly way — ” 

She faced him defiantly. Her eyes were 
glowing with excited feeling. She looked like 
a young duchess in her anger. After the 





140 


JUDY 


pictures, she had twisted her hair on top of 
her head in shining coils, and the dress she 
wore was a quaint mull that had been her 
grandmother’s, a thing of creamy folds and 
laces that swept the floor. Launcelot felt 
suddenly very crude and impertinent to be 
dictating to this very stately young lady. 
But her next remark made her a child again, 
and brought him confidence. 

“ I have always had my own way — and 
I shall do as I please.” 

Launcelot got up lazily. “ All right,” he 
said, and held out his hand, “ good-bye. I 
promised mother that I wouldn’t be late.” 

But Judy did not seem to see the hand. 
She leaned against one of the big pillars 
indifferently, and looked out over the garden. 

Launcelot waited a moment, and then his 
hand dropped. 

“ Oh, I suppose you and I will have to 
quarrel now and then,” he said, “ we are 
both so obstinate,” and he smiled to himself 
as Judy frowned darkly at the word, “ but 
I don’t see any use in doing it now, when we 
have had such a nice day — ” 



LORDLY LAUNCELOT 


141 


With one of her quick changes of mood 
Judy beamed on him. “ Oh, hasn’t it been 
nice,” she said. And then she held out her 
hand. “ Good-bye,” she smiled. 

But as he went down the path she called 
after him. 

“ If you meet Tommy Tolliver, tell him I 
want to see him.” 

He stopped. “ What do you want him for P ” 
he asked, suddenly suspicious. 

“ I sha’n’t tell you.” 

“ You needn’t think you can get him to 
take you to the gipsy camp,” said Launcelot. 

“ He will take me if I ask him.” 

“ No, he won’t.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Because I shall tell him beforehand that 
if he takes you out there I shall thrash him 
within an inch of his life.” 

“ What ? ” gasped Judy. 

“ I shall do it,” said Launcelot, and as he 
swung down the path, Judy, looking after the 
straight, strong figure, knew that his threat 
was not an idle one. 

And yet, after all, if it had not been for 



142 


JUDY 


Launcelot, Judy would never have gone to the 
camp. She had debated the question and 
had decided that the game was not worth the 
candle. She had approached Tommy Tolli¬ 
ver, and his numerous excuses convinced her 
that Launcelot had been before her. She had 
hinted her wishes to Anne, only to be met by 
that virtuous maiden with “ Oh, Judy, I 
should be afraid — they look so dark and 
wild — and besides we ought not to go — ” 
She even suggested a drive to the camp to the 
Judge, but he had said : “ It is not a place for 
you, my dear,” as if that settled the question. 

Then, too, she had other plans for Saturday, 
for Launcelot planned to drive his mother and 
Judy and Anne to Lake Limpid, and they 
were to take an early boat for a little resort 
where they were to meet some of Mrs. Bart’s 
friends. 

Judy stayed with Anne all night, so as to 
be as near the Barts as possible, for there was 
a drive of five miles, and the boat left at 
eight o’clock. 

“ Do get up, Judy,” begged Anne, on 
Saturday morning, as she stood in front of 




LORDLY LAUNCELOT 


143 


her little mirror, her hair combed, her shoes 
polished, and her last bow tied. 

But Judy dug her rumpled head deeper 
into the pillow. 

“ ‘ If you’re waking, call me early, call me 
early, mother, dear,’ ” she murmured, having 
improved her acquaintance with Tennyson 
during the week. 

“ Well, it isn’t early,” said Anne, sharply. 
“ You will be late, Judy, and we must catch 
the boat.” 

Judy sat up rubbing her eyes. “ Oh, it 
won’t hurt Launcelot to wait a little. He 
thinks he can manage -everybody — but he 
can’t dictate to me, Anne. I am not as meek 
as you are.” 

“ I’m not meek,” flared Anne, whose 
usually sweet temper had been somewhat 
ruffled in her efforts to wake Judy. “ But 
Launcelot is a very sensible boy.” 

“ Oh, sensible,” groaned Judy. “ I hate 
sensible people.” 

“ What kind of people do you like ? ” 
demanded Anne, indignantly. “ Unsensible 
ones ? ” 




144 


JUDY 


“ Yes. Dashing people and lively people 
and funny people — and — and — romantic 
people — but sensible people, oh, dear,” and 
she buried her head again in the pillow. 

“ Judy, get wp.” 

“ I’ll be ready in time.” 

“ No, you won’t. And breakfast is ready* 
Judy, get up.” 

A gentle snore was the only answer. 

“ Oh,” and Anne flung herself out of the 
room, “ if you are late, Judy Jameson, I can’t 
help it.” 

She w T ent down-stairs and ate her breakfast. 
But no sign of Judy. 

“ Judee—ee ! ” she called up the stair¬ 
way, and “ Judee—ee ! ” she called again 
from the garden, where, with Belinda and 
Becky, she stood awaiting the arrival of the 
carriage. 

“ Judith, my dear,” expostulated the little 
grandmother, climbing the stairway slowly, 
“ Judith, my dear, you really must hurry. You 
will have to go without any breakfast — I — ” 

She opened the door of the little bedroom 
and stopped short. 



LORDLY LAUNCELOT 


145 


The bedclothes had been thrown over the 
foot-board, the pillows were on the floor, 
Judy’s clothes were gone, and the room was 
empty! 



CHAPTER XIII 


A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 

S HE is hiding,” said Anne. 

But though they hunted and called, 
not a sign of the missing girl could 
they find. 

When Launcelot came, Anne was almost in 
tears. 

“ She must be here somewhere,” she said. 
“ IPs too bad. We shall be late.” 

“ No, we won’t,” said Launcelot, who had 
listened without a word to the tale of Judy’s 
shortcomings and final disappearance. “ We 
will not be late, Anne, for if Judy doesn’t come 
in just three minutes, we will go without her.” 

“ Oh, no, no, no,” protested Anne, all her 
grievances against Judy forgotten in the face 
of such a calamity. k ‘ We can’t leave her 
behind.” 

She will leave herself behind,” said Launce- 

146 


A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 


147 


lot, “ for mother can’t miss the boat. She has 
promised her friends that she will meet them.” 

“ But my dear,” protested gentle Mrs. 
Bart, “ we can surely wait until the last 
minute. Judy only intends it as a joke, and 
it is too bad to leave her.” 

But Launcelot was in an explosive mood. 
The morning had been a trying one for him. 
He had hurried through a half-day’s work in 
an hour and a half, he had eaten hardly any 
breakfast for fear he should keep the 
girls waiting, and now — to be treated like 
this! 

“ We can’t wait any longer,” he said, look¬ 
ing at his watch. “ I am sorry, Anne, but we 
shall just have to leave Judy behind.” 

Again x4nne started to protest, but the little 
grandmother shook her head. “ Judy de¬ 
serves it,” she said. “ She is too old to be so 
childish.” 

“ Maybe she is waiting down the road some¬ 
where,” said Anne, hopefully. “ I think she 
is trying to fool us.” 

But Judy was not waiting down the road. 
She was in the orchard behind the plum-tree. 



148 


JUDY 


“ It won’t hurt Launcelot to wait,” she had 
thought as she hid herself, “ I will make him 
think I am not going — ” 

But she had not dreamed that they would 
go without her, and when she saw Anne 
climb in and the carriage start off, she ran 
forward wildly. 

“ Wait,” she called, “ wait for me.” 

But the carriage whirled on in a cloud of 
dust, and her voice echoed on the empty 
air. 

By the time Judy reached the house Mrs. 
Batcheller had gone in, and so the little girl 
ran down the road unseen. “ Perhaps they 
will stop for me,” she thought, and her eyes 
were strained after the flying vehicle. 

But it did not stop, and at last warm and 
tired Judy dropped down by the roadside, a 
forlorn figure. 

“ I didn’t think they would leave me,” she 
thought disconsolately. 

After a while she got up and started towards 
the house. She dreaded to face Mrs. Batchel¬ 
ler, however, and she sat down again to decide 
upon a plan for spending the day. 



A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 


149 


She would not stay in the little gray 
cottage, that was a sure thing, and to go 
back to the Judge’s meant a dull day by 
herself. 

As she mused, a cheery whistle sounded 
down the road. “ A Life on the Ocean 
Wave ” was the tune and Judy started to her 
feet. 

“ Oh, Tommy Tolliver, Tommy Tolliver,” 
she called, “ come here.” 

Tommy rounded the curve in the road and 
stared at her. 

“ Say, I thought you were going with 
Anne,” he said. “ They just passed me down 
the road.” 

“ Did they ? ” asked Judy, indifferently. 
“ Well, at the last minute I thought I wouldn’t 

go ” 

“ Well, you missed it,” said Tommy, 
aggravatingly. “ Lake Limpid’s great — and 
Launcelot can sail a boat like anything.” 

“ Oh, can he P ” said Judy, faintly. She 
loved to sail, and Tommy’s words brought 
before her a vision of the pleasure she had 
forfeited. 




150 


JUDY 


There was silence for several minutes, then 
Judy said: 

“ Tommy, do you know where the gipsies 
are camping ? ” 

Tommy waved her away. 

“ I can’t take you there,” he said, “ I 
have promised I won’t.” 

“ ‘ Nobody asked you, sir, she said.’ ” 
Judy’s tone was withering. “ I asked you 
where it was.” 

“ Oh.” 

“ Well, tell me.” 

Tommy wriggled. 

“ Are you going there ? ” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ Well, you’d better not. Launcelot won’t 
like it.” 

. “ Oh, Launcelot, Launcelot.” Judy’s voice 
was scornful. “ I don’t care what Launcelot 
likes, Tommy Tolliver.” 

“ Oh, don’t you ? ” cried Tommy, bright¬ 
ening. “ Well, then — ” 

But he stopped suddenly. “No, I can’t 
tell you,” he said, miserably. 

“ Why not ? ” 



A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 


151 


<6 T 55 

1 can t. 

44 Oh, well, you needn’t/’ said Judy, 44 But 
I can find out. And I’m going.” 

44 You’d better not,” warned Tommy, yet 
hoping she would do it. 

44 I’ll go with you,” he agreed, 44 if you will 
promise not to tell,” 

44 I don’t want you to go,” asserted Judy. 
44 I want you to tell me how to get there.” 

Tommy told her as well as he could. 

44 That doesn’t seem very clear,” said Judy, 
when he had finished. 44 But I guess I can 
find it — and Tommy” — she fixed him 
with a stern glance — 44 don’t you tell any one 
where I am — not any one — or I sha’n't ever 
speak to you again — ” 

44 All right,” said Tommy, 44 And don’t 
you let on to Launcelot that I told you which 
way to go.” 

44 Good-bye,” said Judy. 

44 Good-bye,” said Tommy. 

And off they started in different directions, 
feeling like a pair of conspirators. 

For the first half-mile Judy enjoyed her 
walk. The sky w T as blue, and the air was soft, 





152 


JUDY 


and there were violets on the banks and 
forget-me-nots in the field, and the orchards 
were pink with bloom. 

There were birds everywhere, from the 
great black crows, strutting over the red hills 
of newly planted corn, to the tiny gray spar¬ 
rows, that slipped through the dusty grass at 
the roadside. 

And in spite of the fact that she had started 
on a forbidden quest, Judy was happy. For 
the first time since she had come to the 
Judge’s she was alone and free — with no 
reckoning to come until evening. 

She stepped along lightly, but after a while 
she went more slowly, and by the time she 
reached the thick piece of woodland where 
the gipsies were encamped, she was tired out. 

They were not far from the road, for she 
could hear the thrum of the guitars, and voices 
raised as if in a quarrel. 

The voices were stilled as Judy’s white- 
gowned figure appeared under the over¬ 
arching oaks. 

The dark young leader, who had been at the 
Judge’s, uttered something in a warning voice 



A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 


153 


to a sullen young woman who lounged against 
a pile of bright-colored rugs, and with whom 
he had been having evidently a fierce argu¬ 
ment. She wore a soiled, silken cap, loaded 
with gilt coins, and her dress was in tawdry 
reds and yellows, yet picturesque and be¬ 
coming to her dark beauty. She stared 
insolently at Judy as the latter came forward, 
but the young leader was smiling and profuse 
in his welcome. 

44 You have come,” he said, 44 and alone? ” 

Something in his tone made Judy draw 
away from him. 

“ Yes,” she said, and then, peremptorily, 
54 I want my fortune told.” 

64 I will speak to the queen,” he said, and 
left her, with another of his flashing smiles. 

The camp life as Judy looked upon it pre¬ 
sented an alluring picture to one of her 
romantic turn of mind. Back in the darkness 
and dimness of a cave-like opening in the 
rocks, an old woman bent over a charcoal 
brazier. Her hair, gray and grizzled, fell 
over a yellow face that, lighted by the blue 
flames, took on a hag-like aspect. Her skinny 



154 


JUDY 


hands moved as if in incantations, and Judy 
shivered with the mystery of it until the strong 
and unmistakable odor of beef and onion 
stew rose on the air and relieved her mind as 
to the nature of the brew which might have 
been of “ wool of bat and tongue of dog 55 for 
all she knew to the contrary. 

A group of swarthy men lounged under the 
trees and down by the stream a half-dozen 
children played with a half-dozen dogs. The 
children were fat and rosy, and the curs lean 
and cadaverous, and the dozen of them had 
stared at Judy as she came into the camp in 
animal-like curiosity, and then had gone on 
with their playing. 

From one of the two big wagons drawn up 
near the road came the wailing of an infant, 
and in the other a woman, half-hidden by 
the curtain, sat weaving a bright-colored 
basket. 

“Do you all work at basket weaving? 5 ’ 
Judy asked the silent girl on the rugs. 

“ I do not work, 55 was the answer. Then 
she tossed her head, defiantly. “ I will not 
work. They cannot make me. 55 



A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 


155 


She started to say more, but she stopped as 
the dark young leader came back. 

He had spoken to the old woman who 
presided at the fire, and Judy saw her wipe 
her hands and make for a dilapidated tent 
under an oak. 

It was to this tent that she was directed, 
and when she was once within and her eyes 
had grown accustomed to the darkness, she 
saw the old hag, looking more witch-like than 
ever, with her head tied up in a flaming yellow 
bandanna, and her shoulders wrapped in a 
great cloak covered with cabalistic signs. 

“ Cross my hand with silver/" she mur¬ 
mured, and Judy took out the only piece of 
money she had with her — a silver quarter 
of a dollar. 

The old woman looked at it with dissatis¬ 
faction. “ That is not enough, ” she said. “ I 
can tell you nothing for that.” 

“ But I haven’t any more,” said Judy, in 
dismay. “ I didn’t expect to come, and it is 
all I have.” 

“ Oh, well,” grudgingly, “ 1 will tell you a 
little.” 



156 


JUDY 


She took Judy’s hand in hers and studied 
the palm. 

44 You will live to be old,” she said, monoto¬ 
nously. 44 There are double rings around 
your wrist. You will marry a man with 
wealth and with gray eyes.” 

“ I don’t want to know that — ” said Judy, 
impatiently, to whom such matters were as 
yet unimportant. 44 Tell me about — about — 
other things.” 

44 Hush,” said the gipsy, 44 1 must say, 
what I must say. You will go on a long 
journey. It will be on the sea. You will look 
for one who is lost. You are a child of the 
sea — ” She flung Judy’s hand a^way from 
her. 44 That is all,” she said, heavily, 44 I 
can tell you no more without more money.” 

44 Oh, oh,” cried Judy, breathlessly, 44 how 
did you know it. How did you know that I 
was a child of the sea — ” 

44 What I tell, I know,” crooned the old 
woman, theatrically. 44 I can tell nothing 
without silver.” 

44 But I haven’t any more money,” cried 
poor Judy. 




“Hush,” Said the Gypsy, “I Must Say What I 

Must Say” 
















A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 


157 


“ But a ring, a pin, they will do as well,’' 
the old woman looked at her greedily. 

“ I don’t wear jewelry,” said Judy, “ I 
don’t care for it.” 

“ A chain, a charm, then,” urged the old 
woman, whose eagle eyes had caught the 
outline of something that glittered beneath 
the thin lace collar of Judy’s gow T n. 

“ I have nothing.” 

“ There, there, — what have you there P ” 
and the yellow finger tapped Judy’s throat. 

Judy drew back with a little shudder, and 
shook her head as she showed the thin gold 
chain with a pearl clasp on the end of which 
w T as a quaint silver coin. 

“ I couldn’t let you have this,” she said. 
“ My mother always w T ore it. It is a Spanish 
coin. My father found tw T o of them on the 
beach near our home, and he gave mother 
one, and he kept the other — they are just 
alike. Oh, no, I couldn’t give you that — ” 

“ I will tell you many things — about 
one who has gone away,” tempted the old 
woman. 

For a moment Judy wavered. “ Oh, I 



158 


JUDY 


can’t, ” she decided. “ I can’t let you have 
this.” 

The old woman got up. “ Then go,” she 
said roughly. 

All at once there came over Judy a feeling 
of fear. She turned quickly and saw the young 
leader in the door behind her. There was 
something sinister in his looks, and between 
the two she felt trapped. 

“ Let me out,” she panted. “ Let me out.” 

With a smile, the man in the door drew 
aside, and she stepped out into the daylight. 
As she did so, he whispered to the old woman, 
“ What did you get P ” 

“ Nothing. But the girl has on a chain 
with a pearl in it that would buy us food for 
a year.” 

“ Oh! ” 

He followed Judy quickly. 

“ Stay, and we will play for you,” he urged. 

But her nerves were shaken. 

“ No, no,” she said, hurriedly, “ I must 
go home.” 

“ You must stay until we play,” he insisted, 
and called the men together, and Judy, still 



A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 


159 


trembling from the moment of dread in the 
dark tent, sank down once more beside the 
sullen girl on the rugs. 

But the leader called the girl away for a 
moment, and when she came back she sat 
closer to Judy than before, and her hand was 
busy with the fastening of the chain at the 
back — but so lightly, so deftly, that Judy 
sat unconscious. 

And in the intervals of the music the girl 
laughed and chatted, telling Judy of the life 
on the road, of anything to hold her attention. 

“ You would look like one of us,” she said, 
“ if you wore one of these,” and she threw 
across Judy’s shoulders a scarf of red silk. 

“ I believe I am half gipsy,” said Judy, 
trying to be agreeable, but shrinking with a 
feeling of repulsion from the untidy creature 
so near her. 

The girl drew away the scarf with a loud 
laugh and a triumphant nod and a wink to 
the leader, and presently the music stopped. 

“ I must go,” said Judy, more and more in 
dread of these strange people. 

Once more the old woman bent over the 



160 


JUDY 


blue flames; but the children had gone deeper 
into the wood, and the place was silent except 
for the occasional guttural remark of one of 
the men, or a wail from the baby in the 
wagon. 

“ I must go,” she said again, and started 
off. 

But when she reached the road, the young 
leader caught up with her. 

“ You are beautiful,” he said, w r hen he 
was beyond the hearing of the others. 

Judy hurried on in silence, but he kept by 
her side. “ You are beautiful,” he said 
again, and laid his hand on her arm. 

Then Judy whirled around on him. “ Don’t 
speak to me that way again,” she said, 
imperiously. “ I may be alone and helpless, 
and I know now that I was very foolish to 
come. But my grandfather is a Judge. If 
anything happens to me, he will call you to 
account. Go back to the camp. Go back 
and let me alone.” 

The man stopped short and gazed at her. 

“ You are brave,” he said, in a more 
respectful tone. 



A FORTUNE AND A FRIGHT 


161 


“ None of my family have ever been 
cowards,” said Judy, who was herself again. 
“ I am not afraid of you.” 

His bold eyes dropped before the fearlessness 
in hers. 

“ Good-bye,” he said, humbly, and when 
he reached the edge of the camp he turned 
and looked after her, and there was a shadow 
on his swarthy face. 

The girl on the pile of rugs called him. 
“ I got it,” she said. 

“ Give it to me,” he ordered, roughly. 

But she held the necklace away from him 
with a teasing laugh. “ It is mine, it is mine,” 
she cried, then shrieked, as he wrenched it 
out of her hand, twisting her wrist cruelly. 

Judy, alone once more and with her courage 
all gone, so that she was so weak that she 
could hardly stand, ran on and on, blindly. 
She dared not go back the w T ay she had come 
for fear of meeting again some of the hated 
band. 

“ I will keep ahead,” she thought. “ There 
must be a house somew T here, and I can get 
them to drive me home.” 



162 


JUDY 


But though she walked on and on, no house 
appeared. She was faint with fatigue and 
hunger, and at last, as she came to the end of 
a road and found herself stranded in a great 
pasture, a sob caught in her throat. 

She sat down on a rock and looked around. 
There seemed to be nothing in sight but 
rocks and scrubby bushes, and already twilight 
was descending over the land. 

“ I believe I am lost,” she owned at last, 
“ and if some one doesn’t find me pretty soon, 
I shall have to stay out all night.” 



CHAPTER XIV 

A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 

T he moon was out and the stars when 
Judy discovered a flock of sheep in 
the middle of the great pasture. 

They were gathered together in a close 
woolly bunch as she came upon them, and they 
turned to her their mild white faces, but did 
not get up from the ground. It was nice to 
be near something alive, even if it was only 
such meek, silly creatures, and Judy sat down 
on a stone near them. 

“ I will stay here,” she decided. “ I simply 
cannot walk another step.” 

It was very lonely and she was very fright¬ 
ened. The moon lighted the world with a 
white light, but the shadows were black under 
the trees; somewhere in the distance a whip¬ 
poorwill uttered a plaintive note, and from 

163 


164 


JUDY 


the gloomy woods beyond came the mournful 
hoot of an owl. 

Judy slipped down to the softer grass, and 
resting her head on her arm gazed up at the 
sky, and gradually her fear went from her in 
the silence of the perfect night. A line marked 
in one of her father’s books came to her: 

“ God’s in his heaven 
All’s right with the world.” 

Judy did not know that Browning had 
said that — she didn’t care who had said it, 
but it comforted her. If everything had 
seemed to go wrong in her own little world, 
it was because she had made it wrong. Here 
under the wonderful sky w T as peace, and if 
she was afraid and out of harmony it was her 
own fault. 

“ If I hadn’t gone where I ought not to 
have been, nothing would have happened,” 
was her rather mixed, if perfectly correct, 
summing up. 

The little lambs bleated now and then: 

“ Maa-a-a, Maa-aa-a.” 

And the old ewes responded comfortingly. 



A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 


165 


“ Baa-aa — ’’which Judy interpreted as mean¬ 
ing, “ I am here, little one, don’t be afraid.” 

“ I won’t be afraid either, you dear old 
thing,” said Judy to the motherly creature 
near her, who had turned upon her now and 
then inquiring gentle eyes. “ I won’t be afraid, 
and I am going to sleep.” 

She did go to sleep, and when she waked, 
the world was dark. The moon had sailed 
away like a golden boat, and the stars seemed 
very far off. 

Judy sat up and shivered. A cool wind had 
risen, but that was not what had roused her. 

She had heard something! 

Something that just at the right of the flock 
of sheep moved silently, something blacker 
than the darkness that enveloped it! 

She thought of wild animals, of tramps, of 
everything natural that might invade a pasture; 
then as a sepulchral cry broke once more 
upon the air, she remembered all the tales 
she had ever heard of Things that visited one 
in the night. 

“ Judy Jameson, you know you don’t 
believe in ghosts,” she tried to reassure her- 



166 


JUDY 


self, “ you know you don’t, Judy Jameson,” 
but all the same her heart went “ thumpety- 
thump.” 

She cowered back against the rock as a 
white figure appeared beside the black one, 
and the two bore down upon her. 

There was a sudden bewildering chorus: 

“ Caw — caw — caw — ” 

“ Purr — rr — meow — ” 

And then Judy screamed, joyfully, “ Oh, 
Belinda, Belinda, you precious pussy cat,” 
and in her relief she hugged the great white 
animal, as if she were not the same girl who, 
not many days before, had said, “ I hate 
cats.” 

Becky walked around in a circle and 
inspected Judy. 

“So it was you, Becky, was it?” asked 
Judy, “ that I saw first? But what made 
you look so tall ? ” 

She went to the place where she had first 
seen the apparition, and found the slender 
stump of a tree, on top of which Becky had 
been perched. 

“ What are you doing here, so far from 



A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 


167 


home, Belinda,” asked Judy, as she sat down 
and took the purring, gentle creature in her 
lap. 

But Belinda could not talk, although she 
patted Judy’s hand with her paw and curled 
down with her head in the crook of Judy’s 
arm. 

“ My, it’s good to have you here,” said 
Judy, “ but I wonder how it happened.” 

She gathered the big cat close to her, 
grateful for the warmth of the soft body, and 
wdth Becky perched up on a rock behind, she 
sat very still, comforted by the sound of 
Belinda’s sleepy song, and by Becky’s sentinel¬ 
like watchfulness. 

It was in the black darkness that precedes 
the dawn that she was roused by a lantern 
flashing across her eyes. 

“ Grandfather,” she said, sleepily, as a 
haggard old face bent above her. “ Grand¬ 
father.” 

“ Judy,” he said, with a break in his voice. 

Wide-awake now, she saw that his hands 
trembled so that he had to set the lantern 
down. 



168 


JUDY 


“ Oh,” she said, remorsefully, as she sat 
up, “ how tired you look, grandfather.” 

44 We have hunted for you all night,” he 
said, and the dim rays from the lantern 
showed the droop of his figure and the lines 
in his face. 

44 Oh, grandfather,” she said again, and 
clung to him, sobbing softly. 

6< Hush,” he said, holding her close. “ Hush, 
Judy. You are all right now.” 

“ Oh, I am all right,” she sobbed, despair¬ 
ingly, 66 but it is you, grandfather, you are all 
tired out, and just because I was such — 
such — a silly goose — ” 

44 Never mind, never mind,” said the Judge, 
hastily, 44 I have found you now.” 

44 I am not worth finding, 5 ’ said Judy, 
miserably, 44 I am not, grandfather.” 

But the Judge laughed at that, and smoothed 
her hair aw T ay from her forehead with a loving 
touch. 64 You are always my dear little girl,” 
he assured her, 44 whatever you do — you 
know that, don’t you P ” 

44 Yes,” she whispered, and laid her face 
against his sleeve. 



A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 


169 


“ Now we will go back,” he said presently, 
and with Belinda and Becky in close attend¬ 
ance, they went up the hill together. 

At the top Judy gave a cry of astonishment, 
for right in front of her, on the other side of the 
hill, was the little gray house, ablaze with 
light. 

“ And I have been right back of it all night. 
If I had just walked a few steps farther,” 
exclaimed Judy. “ I must have gone in a 
circle, and I thought I was miles from here — ” 

As they came to the door the little grand¬ 
mother met them, and Anne, and in the back¬ 
ground Tommy Tolliver. 

“ We didn’t know you were lost,” explained 
Anne as she received the returned wanderer 
in her arms, “ until we got back from Lake 
Limpid. Grandmother thought you had 
joined us down the road, and we thought you 
had stayed at home, and the Judge, of course, 
thought you were with me, and so none of us 
worried until we came back to-night and found 
you had been gone all day.” 

“ And then Tommy told us that you had 
gone to the gipsy camp,” went on Anne. 



170 


JUDY 


At Judy’s reproachful glance Tommy burst 
out: 

“ I couldn’t help telling, Judy. Launcelot 
made me.” 

“ I should say I did,” said a voice from 
the doorway, and Launcelot came in with Dr. 
Grennell. “ I was sure he knew something 
about it.” 

Judy greeted them from the big rocking 
chair — where she sat big-eyed and weary, 
but a most interesting spectacle. 

“ Launcelot went to the camp and found 
that the gipsies had gone, so we knew you 
couldn’t have seen them — ” began the 
Judge, and at that Judy interrupted 
him. 

“ But I did see them, grandfather,” she 
said, “ I went to the camp.” 

“ And were they there ? ” asked Launcelot. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Were they packing while you were there ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I wonder what made them leave so 
suddenly,” and Launcelot and the Judge and 
Dr. Grennell looked at each other. 



A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 


171 


“ Did you give them anything, Judy ? ” 
asked the Judge. 

“ Nothing but twenty-five cents. They 
were horrid, and the old woman wanted me 
to give my chain and Spanish coin. She knew 
an awful lot and I was crazy to hear the rest 
of my fortune, but I couldn’t give away my 

• 9 9 

coin. 

“ What coin, Judy ? ” asked Tommy, 
curiously. 

“ This one — ” Judy put her hand to her 
neck, then she screamed: 

“ It’s gone, grandfather, Launcelot, it’s 
gone.” 

“ What ? ” They all bent forward in 
excitement. 

“ I thought so,” said the Judge, settling 
back in his chair, “ when she said she had 
seen them, and then they disappeared before 
we could get to them. I thought they had been 
up to something.” 

“ It w r as my chain with the pearl in it,” 
said Judy, “ the one you gave mother.” 

“ Yes, and the rascals knew that the pearl 
was worth more than their whole outfit.” 



172 


JUDY 


Launcelot picked up his hat. “ I’m going 
to get it for you,” he said, “ they can’t play 
any tricks like that.” 

“ I’ll go with you,” said Dr. Grennell, 
“ you may need an older man to help you. 
I think we can catch them with good horses.” 

He bent over Judy before he w T ent out. 
“ I wish you had come to me to have your 
fortune told,” he said, “ I could have told 
you more than that old hag.” 

“ How P ” asked Judy, puzzled. 

“ I should have told you that life is what w T e 
make it. And your fortune will be good or 
bad as you live it. It will not be a gipsy 
queen but Judy Jameson who shall decide 
the final issue.” 

“ But, doctor, she knew that I loved the 
sea, and — and — that I had lost some one 
that I loved — ” 

“ Oh, Judy,” Launcelot’s tone was im¬ 
patient, “ didn’t you tell that fellow that you 
were coming, and didn’t they have lots of 
time to find out about you.” 

“ I didn’t think of that,” said Judy 
meekly. 



A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 


173 


But as he went out of the door, she had a 
little flash of temper. 

“ If you had waited for me this morning, 
I shouldn’t have gone to the camp.” 

“ If you had been ready, I shouldn’t have 
left you,” was Launcelot’s reply, as his quiet 
eyes met Judy’s stormy ones. 

“ Oh,” she said, helplessly, and turned her 
gaze away, feeling that, as usual, he had the 
best of it. 

And at that he whispered, “ But I didn’t 
have a good time, Judy — we — we missed — 
you — ” and he followed Dr. Grennell. 

“ And now,” said the little grandmother, 
“ every one go home, and let me put this 
naughty girl to bed,” but she smiled at 
Judy as she said it, and the tired little maid 
put her arms around her, and buried her 
face in the motherly bosom, and shook in a 
sudden chill. 

“ I am afraid she is going to be ill,” said 
the Judge, anxiously, but the little grand¬ 
mother tried to cheer him. 

u She will be all right when she is rested,” she 
said, with a confidence she did not really feel. 



174 


JUDY 


But when Anne was fast asleep, and Judy 
lay awake, tossing restlessly in the gray light 
of the dawn, the little grandmother came in, 
in a flannel wrapper, with her curls tucked 
away under a hand-made lace nightcap. 

“ Can’t you sleep, dearie ? ” she whispered, 
as she sat down beside the bed. 

“ No. I think, and think, and think — 
about grandfather, and what a worry I am — ” 
and Judy gave a great sigh. 

“ He has so many cares.” The little grand¬ 
mother’s tone was gentle but it carried 
reproof, and Judy sat up and looked at her 
with troubled eves. 

“ But I can’t help my nature,” she cried, 
tempestuously. “ I can’t bear to do things 
like other people, and when I get restless it 
seems as if I must go, and when I am angry 
I just have to say things — ” 

But the little grandmother shook her head. 
“ You don’t have to be anythixig you don’t 
want to be, Judy,” she said. 

“ But it seems so easy for Anne to be 
good,” pursued Judy, “ and so hard for 



A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 


17 5 


“ It isn’t always easy for Anne,” said the 
little grandmother. 

44 Isn’t it ? ” with astonishment. 

44 No, indeed. Anne has fought out many 
little fights of temper and wilfulness right here 
in this little room — she is a dear child.” 

44 Indeed she is,” agreed Judy, glancing 
at the serene face on the pillow. 

44 But Anne has learned to think for others. 
That is the secret, dearie. Think of your 
grandfather, think of your friends, and it will 
be w r onderful how little time you will have to 
think of Judy Jameson.” 

44 If I had my mother.” Judy’s lip quivered. 

The little grandmother laid her old cheek 
against the flushed one. 

46 Dear heart,” she said, 44 I can’t take her 
place, but if you will try to talk to me as Anne 
does, maybe I can help — ” 

44 I will, 5 ’ said Judy, and kissed her; but 
when the little grandmother had gone away, 
Judy could not sleep, and finally she got up 
and put on her red dressing-gown and sat by 
the wdndow and looked out upon the waking 
world. 



176 


JUDY 


The robins were up and out on the dewy 
lawn, safe for once from Belinda, who was 
curled up sound asleep on the foot of Anne’s 
bed. Becky with her head under her wing 
was on top of the little bookcase, and the 
house was very quiet. 

Suddenly through the mists of the morn¬ 
ing Judy saw a carriage coming down the 
road. 

It stopped at the gate and Launcelot leaped 
out. 

Judy spoke to him from the window. 
“ Hush,” she said, “ every one is asleep. I 
will come down.” 

As she met him at the lower door, he swung 
something bright and shining in front of her 
eyes. 

“ We found it,” he whispered, excitedly, as 
Judy took her chain with a cry of delight. 
" W e came across the gipsies on the Upper 
Fairfax road. The man tried to bluff it out, 
but the girl gave him away. While he was 
talking to Dr. Grennell she told me that he 
had it. I think she was mad at him about 
something, but she said he would kill her if 



A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 


177 


he knew she told. So I just went on about 
the Judge and how he intended to put the 
police on the case if we didn’t bring back the 
chain, and that he would be willing to hush 
it up if we got it, and so he handed it out — 
said it had been found on the ground after 
you left.” 

“ Where is Dr. Grennell ? ” asked Judy. 

“ I dropped him at the manse,” said Launce- 
lot, “ but I couldn’t wait to bring this to you. 
I thought you would want to know about it.” 

“ I couldn’t sleep,” explained Judy, “ I 
was so afraid I had lost it.” 

“ It’s a funny coin, isn’t it,” said Launcelot. 
“ Dr. Grennell know^s a lot about such things, 
and he says it is a very old one.” 

“ Yes,” she told him. “ Father found two 
of them on the beach in front of our house, 
‘ The Breakers.’ There have been others 
found on the Maryland coast near it, and they 
say that a Spanish vessel was shipwrecked off 
there years ago, and that now r and then some 
of the money washes in. The fishermen along 
the shore dig holes in the sand, and occasion¬ 
ally they find one of these.” 



178 


JUDY 


“ Well, you had better leave it at home the 
next time you go on a wild goose chase.” 

“ There won’t be any next time,” said 
Judy, with a sober face. 

Launcelot looked up from the coin with a 
quick smile, which faded as she gave a hoarse 
little cough. 

“ Go into the house, child,” he ordered, 
“ you will take cold out here — ” 

“ Oh,” in that moment Judy was her¬ 
self again, tempestuous, defiant, “ don’t be 
so bossy , Launcelot.” 

“ Go in,” he said again, but she threw up 
her head and lingered. 

“ What a beautiful morning it is,” she said. 
“ Look, Launcelot, the sun, it is like a ball 
of gold through the mist.” 

But Launcelot was looking at her — at the 
melancholy little figure in the trailing red 
gown, with the dark hair braided down on 
each side of the white face, and hanging in a 
long braid at the back. 

“ Go in,” he said, for the third time, 
peremptorily. “ You are tired to death, and 
you will be sick — ” 



A PRECIOUS PUSSY CAT 


179 


“ But —” 

c ‘ Go in — ” Then in a gentler tone, 
‘ Please, Judy/’ 

And Judy went. 





CHAPTER XV 

THE SPANISH COINS 

T HREE weeks after Judy’s exciting ex¬ 
perience at the gipsy camp, an interest¬ 
ing party of travellers were gathered 
on the platform at Fairfax station. 

There was a stately old man, imposing in 
spite of a tweed cap and sack coat. By his 
side stood a slender girl in gray, who coughed 
now and then, and near them, perched on a 
brand-new trunk, which bore the initials 
“ A. B.” was a small maiden, resplendent in 
a modish blue serge, a scarlet reefer, a stiff 
sailor hat of unquestionable up-to-dateness, 
and tan shoes! 

And the resplendent maiden was Anne! 

“ You must let her go to the seashore with 
us,” the Judge had said to Mrs. Batcheller. 
“ Judy hasn’t been well since she took that 

heavy cold the night she stayed out in the 

180 


THE SPANISH COINS 


181 


pasture — and I know the child pines for the 
sea, although she doesn’t say a word. And I 
don’t want her separated from Anne. She 
needs young company.” 

The little grandmother consented reluc¬ 
tantly. She was very proud, and although for 
years the Judge had tried to do something 
substantial to help his old friend in her 
poverty, he had so far been unsuccessful in 
breaking down the barrier of independence 
which she had set up. 

One promise he had wrung from her, how¬ 
ever, that when Anne was old enough, he was 
to send her away to school, where she would 
be fitted to take her place worthily in a long 
line of cultured people. This he had de¬ 
manded and obtained by virtue of his friend¬ 
ship for her father and grandfather, and for 
the “ sake of Auld Lang Syne.” 

“ But Anne’s things will do very well,” 
said Mrs. Batcheller, when the Judge tried 
tactfully to suggest that he be allowed to send 
Anne’s order with Judy’s. 

“ No, they won’t,” the Judge had insisted, 
bluntly, “ Judy’s old home at The Breakers 



182 


JUDY 


is somewhat isolated, but there will be trips 
that the girls will take together, and friends 
will call, and I can’t have little Anne unhappy 
because she hasn’t a pretty gown to wear.” 

“ Oh, well,” sighed Mrs. Batcheller, “ if 
you look at it that way. Now in my day, if a 
girl had a sweet temper and nice manners, 
that was all that was necessary.” 

“Hum—” mused the Judge. “But I 
remember somebody in a little white gown 
with green sprigs, and a hat with pink roses 
under the brim.” 

“ Judith and I had them just alike,” 
smiled the blushing little grandmother. 

“ And you looked like two sweet old- 
fashioned roses,” said the old man, “ and 
you knew it, too. The world hasn’t changed 
so very much, or girl nature.” 

“ Perhaps not,” confessed the little grand¬ 
mother, her eyes still bright with the memories 
of youthful vanities; “ perhaps not, and you 
may have your way, Judge, only you mustn’t 
spoil my little girl.” 

“ She can’t be spoiled,” said the Judge 
promptly, and went away triumphant. 



THE SPANISH COINS 


183 


And so it came about that in the trunk on 
which Anne sat were five frocks — two white 
linen ones like Judy’s; a soft gray for cool 
days, an organdie all strewn with little pink 
roses, and an enchanting pale blue mull for 
parties. 

No wonder that Anne sat on that trunk! 
It was a treasure casket of her dreams — and 
with the knowledge of what it contained, she 
did not envy Cinderella her godmother, nor 
Aladdin his lamp! 

“ Amelia and Nannie are coming to say 
‘ good-bye,’ ” said Anne, as two figures 
appeared far up the road, “ they’d better 
hurry.” 

“ Tommy is coming, too,” said Judy. I 
wish I could take them all with me.” 

“ Why not invite them all down to The 
Breakers,” suggested the Judge, who was 
eager to do anything for this fragile, big-eyed 
granddaughter, who was creeping into his 
heart by gentle ways and loving consideration, 
so that he sometimes wondered if the old, 
tempestuous Judy were gone for ever. 

“ Not now,” said Judy, thoughtfully. “ I 



184 


JUDY 


just want you and Anne for a while, but I 
should love to have them some time — and 
Launcelot, too.’’ 

“ Can you ? ” she asked Launcelot, as he 
came out of the baggage room with their 
checks in his hand, followed by Perkins with 
the bags. 

“ Can I what ? ” he asked, standing before 
her with his hat in his hand, a shabby figure 
in shabby corduroy, but a gentleman from 
the crown of his well-brushed head to the 
soles of his shining boots. 

“ Will you come down to The Breakers 
sometime ? — I am going to ask Amelia and 
Nannie and Tommy, and I want you, too — ” 

“Will I come? Well, I should say I 
would — ” but suddenly his smile faded. 
“ I am awfully afraid I can’t, though. There 
is so much to do around our place, and father 
isn’t well.” 

Now in spite of the affectionate dutifulness 
with which of late Judy treated her grand¬ 
father, she still showed her thorny side to 
Launcelot. 

“ Oh, well, of course, if you don’t w T ant to 



THE SPANISH COINS 


185 


come” — she snapped, tartly, and went forward 
to meet the young people, who were hurrying 
up, Amelia puffing and out of breath, Nannie 
with her red curls flying, and Tommy laden 
with a parting gift of apples, an added burden 
for the martyred Perkins. 

Far down the road the train whistled. Anne 
was surrounded by a little circle of sorrowing 
friends. Even Launcelot was in the group, 
and Judy and the Judge stood alone. 

44 How they love her,” said Judy, with a 
little ache of envy in her heart. 

64 How she loves them,” said the wise old 
Judge. 44 That is the secret, Judy.” 

Amelia had brought Anne a box of fudge, 
Nannie a handkerchief made by her own 
stubby and patient fingers, and L<auncelot!made 
her happy with a book of fairy-tales, w T orn as 
to cover, but with rich things within — a 
book of his that she had long coveted. 

44 By-by, little Anne,” he said, with a 
brotherly pat on her shoulder. Then he 
shook hands with the Judge. 44 I hope you 
will have a fine time, sir,” he said. Then as 
he and Judy stood together for a moment, he 



186 


JUDY 


handed her something wrapped carefully in 
tissue-paper. 

“ These are for you,” he said, a little 
awkwardly. 

She unwound the paper and gave a little 
cry of delight. 

“ Violets, oh, Launcelot — how did you 
know I loved them ? ” 

“ Guessed it — you had them on your hat, 
and I liked that violet colored dress you 
wore.” 

“ And they are so sweet and fragrant. 
Where could you get them this time of year ? ” 

“ In my little hothouse. I forced them for 
you.” 

But he did not tell her of the hours he had 
spent over them. 

She was silent for a moment. “ It was 
lovely of you,” she said, at last, with a little 
flush and with a sweetness that she rarely 
revealed. 44 It was lovely of you — and I 
was so hateful just now.” 

She reached out her hand to him, and his 
grasp was hearty, reassuring. “ It wouldn’t 
seem natural if you and I didn’t fuss a little. 



THE SPANISH COINS 


187 


would it, Judy ? ” and then the train pulled 
in. 

“ All aboard! ” shouted the conductor. 
Anne and Judy went through the Pullman, 
and came out on the observation platform. 

“ Tell little grandmother to take good care 
of Belinda and Becky,” called Anne, whose 
heart yearned for her pets. 

“ And all of you come and see me,” cried 
Judy, hoping that she might win some of the 
love that was extended to Anne. 

“ We will,” they cried, “ w r e will.” 

“ We will,” echoed Launcelot, with his eyes 
on the violets pinned on Judy’s gray coat, 
“ we will if we have to sit up nights to do it.” 

A flutter of handkerchiefs, a blur of gray 
coat and red one, a trail of blue smoke, and 
the train was gone, and life to those left in 
Fairfax seemed suddenly a monotonous blank. 

As Launcelot turned away from the station, 
he ran into Dr. Grennell, who v r as rushing 
breathlessly up the steps. 

“ Has the train gone ? ” panted the minister. 

“ Yes.” 

Dr. Grennell wiped his heated forehead. 



188 


JUDY 


“ I am sorry for that,” he said, “ I wanted 
especially to see the Judge.” 

He had a letter in his hand, and he stood 
looking at it perplexedly. 

44 To tell the truth, Launcelot,” he began 
slowly, “ I have something strange to tell the 
Judge, and I didn’t want him to get away 
before I saw him. It isn’t a thing to write 
about — and oh, why did I miss that train — ” 

Launcelot waited while the minister stared 
wistfully down the shining track. 

44 Look here, Launcelot,” he asked, suddenly, 
“ do you remember that Spanish coin of 
Judy’s ? ” 

44 Weil, I should say I did,” replied the 
boy. 

44 It’s the strangest thing — the strangest 
thing — oh, I’m going to tell you all about it, 
and see if you can help me out. Is there any 
place that we can be quite alone ? I want to 
read this letter to you.” 

44 There isn’t a soul in the waiting-room,” 
said Lancelot, 44 we can go in there. You’d 
better run on without me, Tommy,” he called, 
44 the doctor!wants me. You can catch up 




THE SPANISH COINS 


189 


with the girls if you hurry/’ and Tommy, 
who had eyed the pair with curiosity, departed 
crestfallen. 

“ I received this letter this morning/’ 
explained Dr. Grennell, as they sat down in 
the stuffy little room. “ Read it. It’s from 
an old friend of mine in Newfoundland — a 
physician.” 

The letter opened with personal matters, 
but the paragraph that the minister pointed 
out to Lancelot read thus: 

“ We have had a rather unusual case here 
lately. You know how often we have men 
brought to the hospital who have been ship¬ 
wrecked, and as a rule there is little that is 
interesting about them — most of them are 
the type of ordinary seamen. Our latest 
case, however, was entered by the captain of 
a sailing vessel, who reported that they had 
picked the man up from a raft. That he was 
delirious then, and had never been able to 
tell them who he was or whence he came. 
He is still very ill and unconscious, and 
there is not a paper about him of identifica¬ 
tion. He is a gentlemen — I am sure of that. 



190 


JUDY 


for liis broken sentences are uttered in perfect 
English, and his hands tell it, too. As I have 
said, there isn’t a letter or a paper about him, 
but around his neck on a silver chain we 
found the coin which I enclose. I know 
your fancy for odd coins, and so I send it, 
thinking perhaps you may give us some clue 
to our patient’s identity.” 

Launcelot’s eyes were bright with excite¬ 
ment as he finished reading. 

“ Let me see the coin,” he begged, eagerly, 
and as the doctor handed it to him, he 
jumped to his feet. 

“ I thought so,” he shouted, “ it’s a Spanish 
coin, like Judy’s.” 

“ Well,” said the minister, quietly, but his 
hand beating against his knee showed that 
his agitation matched Launcelot’s — “ What 
then ? ” 

“ Why, the man must be Judy’s father! ” 
said Launcelot, and when he had thus voiced 
the doctor’s thought, the two stared at each 
other with white faces. 

“ She always believed he was alive,” said 
Launcelot at last. 




THE SPANISH COINS 


191 


“ Pray God that it is really he ? ” said Dr. 
Grennell, reverently. 

“ And now what can w T e do ? ” asked the 
boy. 

“ We must not say a word to Judy yet. 
In fact I don’t know whether we ought to 
tell the Judge. We musn’t raise false hopes.” 

“ Have you ever seen Captain Jameson P ” 

“ We were at college together,” said Dr. 
Grennell; “ that is the way I happened to 
come to Fairfax. I got my appointment to 
this church through Captain Jameson and his 
father.” 

“ Then couldn’t you go on and see if he 
is really Judy’s father? ” 

“ By George,” said the doctor, “ of course 
I can. I can make the excuse that I want to 
visit my old friends. I need an outing, too.” 

“ I wish I could go with you,” said Launce- 
lot, wistfully, as the two walked down the 
road, after having perfected plans for the 
doctor’s trip. “ I am getting awfully tired of 
this place, doctor. You see my life abroad 
was so different, and I feel as if I ought to be 
doing something worth while.” 



192 


JUDY 


44 Just now the thing that is worth w T hile 
is for you to be a good son and stay here,” 
said Dr. Grennell. 44 You can be nothing 
greater than that. And you are doing it like 
a hero,” and his hand dropped affectionately 
on the boy’s shoulder. 

44 Well, it’s deadly dull,” said the hero 
resignedly, as he thought of Anne and Judy 
speeding away to the coolness of the sea. 
But presently he cheered up. 44 It will be 
great if it does happen to be Captain Jameson,” 
he said, “ and just think if Judy hadn’t run 
away we wouldn’t have seen her coin, and if 
I had waited that morning she wouldn’t have 
run aw r ay, and if I hadn’t been cross I would 
have waited — how about that for a moral, 
Doctor.” 

44 There is no moral,” said the minister, 
44 but all bad tempers don’t turn out so well.” 

44 It sounds like, 

“ ‘ Fire, fire burn stick, 

Stick, stick beat dog, 

Dog, dog bite pig — ’ 

doesn’t it ? ” said Launcelot with a laugh, as 
they parted at the crossroads. 



CHAPTER XVI 


THE WIND AND THE WAVES 

I T was dark and raining when the travellers 
reached The Breakers, but a light streamed 
out from the doorway, and Mrs. Adams, 
the caretaker, met them on the step. 

44 I couldn't get any maids to help me,” 
she explained to the Judge, as she led the 
way in, “but my sister is coming over in the 
morning, and Jim will build the fires — and 
I’ve set out supper in the hall.” 

44 That’s all right, Mrs. Adams,” said the 
Judge, heartily, 44 Perkins will serve us, and 
you needn’t stay up. I know you are tired 
after hurrying to gel; the house ready for 
us. 

“ Being tired ain’t nothin’ so that things 
suits/* said Mrs. Adams, with an awed 
glance at the expert Perkins, who having 

relieved the Judge of his hat and raincoat was 

193 


194 


JUDY 


carrying the bags up-stairs under the guidance 
of Mr. Adams. 

“ Everything is just right, Mrs. Adams,” 
said Judy, with eyes aglow. “ I am so glad 
you set the supper-table in front of the big 
fireplace — we used to sit here so often.” 

Her voice trembled a little over the “ we,” 
for the sight of the little round table with its 
shining glass and silver had unnerved her. 
But she had made up her mind to be brave, 
and in a minute she was herself again, leading 
the way to her room, which Anne was to 
share, and doing the honors of the house 
generally. 

The Breakers was a cottage built half of 
stone and half of shingles. It was roomy 
and comfortable, but not as magnificent as 
the Judge’s great mansion in Fairfax. To Judy 
it was home, however, and when she came down 
again, she sighed blissfully as she dropped 
into a chair in front of the blazing fire. 

“ Listen, Anne,” she said to the little 
fair-haired girl, “ listen — do you hear them— 
the wind and the waves P ” 

Anne was not quite sure that she liked it — 



THE WIND AND THE WAVES 195 


the moaning of the wind, and the ceaseless 
swish — boom, crash of the waves. 

“ I wish it was daylight so that I could see 
the ocean,” she said, politely, “ I think it 
must be lovely and blue and big — ” 

“It is lovely now,” said Judy, and went 
to the window and drew back the curtain. 
“ Look out here, Anne — ” 

As Anne looked out, the moon showed for 
an instant in a ragged sky and lighted up a 
wild waste of waters, whose white edge of 
foam ran up the beach half-way to the cottage. 

“ How high the waves are,” said little 
Anne. 

“ I have seen them higher than that,” 
exulted Judy. “ I have seen them so high 
that they seemed to tower above our roof.” 

“ Weren’t you afraid ? ” 

“ They couldn’t hurt me, and it was grand.” 
“ Supper is served, miss,” announced Per¬ 
kins, coming in with a chafing-dish and a 
half-dozen fresh eggs on a silver tray. 

“ I thought you might like something hot, 
sir,” he said to the Judge with a supercilious 
dance at the cold collation which Mrs. 

O 



196 


JUDY 


Adams had provided, and with that he pro¬ 
ceeded on the spot to make an omelette — 
puffy, fluffy, and perfect. 

It was a cozy scene — the old butler in his 
white coat bending over the shining silver 
dish with the blue flame underneath. The 
polished mahogany of the table giving out 
rich reflections as the ruddy light of the fire 
played over it. The sparkling glass, the 
quaint old silver, Judy’s violets all fragrant 
and dewy in the center, and at the head of the 
table the Judge in a great armchair, and on 
each side the two girls, the dark-haired and 
the fair-haired, in white gowns and crisp 
ribbons. 

But Judy ate nothing, although Perkins 
tempted her with various offers. 

“ I’m not-a bit hungry,” she said, over and 
over again, and Anne, who was ravenous, felt 
positively greedy in the face of such dainti¬ 
ness. 

“ You are tired,” said the Judge at last, 
as Judy sat with her chin in her hand, gazing 
at a picture of her father which hung over the 
fireplace — a full-length portrait in uniform. 



THE WIND AND THE WAVES 197 


“ Go to bed, dear.” And in spite of protests, 
as soon as Anne had finished her supper, he 
ordered them both to bed. 

“ What are we going to do about her, Per¬ 
kins ? ” the Judge asked in a worried tone, 
when he and the old servant were alone. 

“ Miss Judy, sir?” 

“ Yes. She isn’t well, Perkins.” 

“ She will be better down here, sir,” said 
Perkins. “ She is like her father, you know, 
sir — likes the water — ” 

“ Perkins — ” after a pause. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Do you think — he is alive ? ” 

It was the first time in years that the Judge 
had spoken of his son. Perkins stopped 
brushing the crumbs from the table, and 
came and stood beside his master, looking 
into the fire thoughtfully. 

“ Miss Judy thinks he is, sir,” he said at 
last. 

“ I know — ” 

“ And I find that it’s the women that’s 
mostly right in such things,” went on Per¬ 
kins. “ A man now only knows what he sees. 



198 


JUDY 


but, Lord, sir, a woman knows things without 
seein’. Sort of takes them on faith, sir.” 

“ The uncertainty is bad for Judy,” said 
the Judge, the deep lines showing in his care¬ 
worn face. 

Perkins laid a respectful hand on the back 
of his chair. “ You’d best go to bed yourself, 
sir,” he said, gently, “ you’re tired, sir.” 

“ Yes — yes.” But he did not move until 
Perkins had drawn the water for his bath 
and had laid out his things, and had urged 
him, “ Everything is ready, sir.” Then he 
got up with a sigh, “ I wish I knew.” 

“ I wish I knew,” he said, a half-hour 
later, as the careful Perkins covered him with 
an extra blanket. “ I wish I knew where he 
is — to-night.” 

Outside the wind moaned, the rain beat 
against the windows and the waves boomed 
unceasingly. Perkins drew the curtain tight, 
and laid the Judge’s Bible on the little table 
by the bed, where his hand could reach it the 
first thing in the morning; then he picked up 
the lamp and went to the door. 

“ I think wherever he is, he’s bein’ took 



THE WIND AND THE WAVES 199 


care of, sir , 53 he said, comfortingly, and with 
an affectionate glance at the gray head on the 
pillow, he went out and closed the door. 

In the morning Anne slept soundly, but 
Judy slipped out of bed early, put on her 
bathing-suit and a raincoat, and with a towel 
in her hand went down-stairs. 

She found Perkins in the lower hall. 

“ You are early. Miss,” he said. 

“ Yes, I am going to take a dip in the 
waves,” said Judy. 

“ You’re sure it’s safe, Miss ? ” asked 
Perkins anxiously. 

“ I have done it all my life,” asserted Judy, 
“ and it gives me an awful appetite for 
breakfast.” 

Perkins brightened. “ Does it now, Miss,” 
he asked. “ Is there anything you would like 
cooked. Miss Judy — I could speak to Mrs. 
Adams.” 

But Judy shook her head. “ I am not 
hungry now,” she said gaily, as she went off, 
“ but I know I shall have an appetite when I 
come in.” 

She tripped away to the bath-house, and 




200 


JUDY 


as she came out of the door looking like a 
sea-nymph in her white-bathing suit and 
white rubber cap she saw Anne, also towel 
laden and rain-coated, flying down towards 
her. 

“ Why didn’t you wake me up,” scolded 
the younger girl. “ Oh, Judy, isn’t it lovely,” 
and she dropped down on the beach, panting. 

The morning sun cast rosy shadows over 
the sea, there was a touch of amethyst in the 
clouds, and the waves as they curled over the 
golden beach were gray-green in the hollows 
and silver-white on their crests. 

“ I just know I sha’n’t dare to stick my toes 
into the water,” said Anne with a shiver. 
“ It is so — so big, Judy.” 

“ You look just dear,” declared Judy, as 
Anne dropped her raincoat and came forth in 
a scarlet suit, “ that red suits you.” 

Anne clasped her hands. “ Oh, Judy, does 
it,” she sighed raptuously. 

“ Yes.” 

“ You don’t think I am getting vain, do 
you, Judy? ” inquired Anne, anxiously, “ but 
I do love pretty things.” 



THE WIND AND THE WAVES 201 


“ I think you are a goosie,” said Judy with 
a little laugh, then she caught hold of Anne 
with impatient hands. “ Come on in, little red 
bird,” she urged, “ it’s lovely in the water.” 

Anne squealed and struggled, and finally 
waded in until the W T ater came up to her 
knees. 

“ Don’t take me any farther, Judy,” she 
begged, and when Judy saw her frightened 
face, she let her go.” 

“ Sit on the sand, then, and watch me, 
Annekins,” she advised. “ You will get used 
to this after a while and enjoy it as much as I 
do.” 

She was off with a run and a leap, and for 
fifteen minutes or more she was over and 
under and up and down on the waves like a 
snowy mermaid. 

“ And now for breakfast,” said the young 
lady in white, as she dashed up the sands, 
with raincoat flying and towel fluttering in the 
breeze. 

Ten minutes later two red-cheeked, wet- 
haired damsels rushed into the dining-room 
and kissed the Judge, who sat at the head of 



202 


JUDY 


the table with his newspaper propped up in 
front of him. 

“ Bless my soul,’’ he said, gazing at them 
over his spectacles, “ are you really up ? ” 

“We have been up for an hour,” gurgled 
Anne, happily, “ and in bathing.” 

But Judy did not stop for explanations, 
“ Oh, waffles, waffles. Perkins, I love you. 
How did you know T I wanted w^affles ? ” 

“ You said you would have an appetite, 
Miss,” said the beaming Perkins, “ and there’s 
nothing that touches the spot on a cool morning 
like waffles.” 

He exchanged satisfied glances with the 
Judge as Judy finished her sixth section, 
having further supplemented the w r affles wfith 
a dish of berries and a lamb chop. 

“ We are going down to the bay after 
breakfast,” announced Judy. 

“ And I am going to take a book and read 
on the sand,” planned Anne. 

“ Books, nothing,” said Judy, slangily. 
“ We are going to sail and catch crabs.” 

“ Little red crabs ? ” asked Anne with 
interest. 



THE WIND AND THE WAVES 203 


“ No, big blue ones, you goosie, and then 
Perkins will cook them for us. Won’t you, 
Perkins ? ” 

“ Anything you say, Miss,” said Perkins, 
resignedly. 

But it rained the next day, and after that 
they went sailing in Judy’s own sailboat “ The 
Princess,” which she could manage as well 
as any man, and after that they drove to town 
with the Judge, so that it was over a week 
before the crabbing expedition came to pass. 

The Breakers stood on a strip of land 
between the bay and the ocean. It was on a 
peninsula, but the connecting link with the 
mainland was many miles away, so that for 
all practical purposes the house was on an 
island, with the ocean in front and the bay 
behind, and all the pleasures that both made 
possible. 

Anne was entranced with the delights of 
crabbing. It was very exciting to get the great 
rusty fellows on the line, tow them up to the 
top of the water, where the competent Perkins 
nabbed them with the crab-net. 

Perkins caught crabs as he did everything 



204 


JUDY 


else, expertly, and with dignity. His only 
concession to the informality of the sport was 
a white yachting cap and a white linen coat, 
and it was a sight worth going miles to see, to 
w T atch him officiate at a catch. The great 
vicious fellows might clash their claws in vain, 
for Perkins subdued them with a scientific 
clutch at the back that rendered them helpless. 

“We are going to cook them as soon as we 
get home,” Judy told Anne. “ Perkins knows 
all about fixing them, and Mrs. Adams is 
going to give up the kitchen to us — it’s lots of 
fun to eat the meat out of the claws.” 

“ Do you want them — devilled, Miss ? ” 
and Perkins coughed discreetly before the 
word. 

“ Yes. In their shells, with parsley stuck 
in the top. They are delicious that way, 
Anne.” 

Anne had her doubts as to the deliciousness 
of anything so spidery-looking as those strange 
fish, but she said nothing. 

“ Is there anything Perkins can’t do ? ” she 
asked Judy, as Perkins went on ahead, bearing 
the great basket of crabs, and the net. 




THE WIND AND THE WAVES 205 


“ I don’t believe there is,” laughed Judy. 
“ He is supposed to be grandfather’s butler, 
but he won’t let any one do a thing for grand¬ 
father, and he plays valet and cook half the 
time when the other servants don’t suit him.” 

Once in the kitchen, Anne eyed the big 
basket shiveringly. The fierce creatures stared 
at her with protruding bead-like eyes, and in a 
way that seemed positively menacing. 

46 If they should get out,” she thought, as 
she was left alone with them for a moment. 

She never knew how it happened, but Per¬ 
kins must have left the basket too near the 
edge of the chair on which he had placed it, 
for as she took hold of the cover to shut it, 
the basket tipped, and down came the living 
load, and in another moment, the desperate 
shell-fish were scuttling across the floor in all 
directions. 

With a shriek Anne took refuge on top of 
the stationary wash-tubs. 

44 Come up here, Judy,” she cried, frantic- 
ally s and Judy who had reached the middle 
of the room, and was surrounded by pugilistic 
creatures before she realized the catastrophe, 



206 


JUDY 


drew herself up beside Anne, and together 
they shrieked for Perkins. 

Perkins came and saw and conquered as 
usual. The girls laughed until the tears ran 
down their cheeks to see the battle. One by 
one the crabs were picked up and dropped into 
a big kettle until at last it was full. 

44 And now you young ladies had best go 
out,” said Perkins, firmly, 4 4 while I cook 
them.” 

It is well to draw a veil over the tragic fate 
of the kettleful of blue crabs, but wdien Anne 
next saw them they were beautifully boiled, 
and red — red as the scarlet of her bathing- 
suit. 

All the afternoon the little girls, under 
Perkins’ skilful guidance learned a lesson in 
expert cookery, and at last, as a dozen perfectly 
browned and parsley-decorated beauties were 
laid on a platter, Judy breathed an ecstatic 
sigh. 44 Aren’t they beautiful ? ” she mur¬ 
mured. 

44 Yes, Miss, that they are,” and Perkins 
surveyed them as an artist lets his glance 
linger on a finished masterpiece. He raised 



THE WIND AND THE WAVES 207 


the platter to carry it to the dining-room, but 
as he turned towards the door he stopped and 
set it down quickly. 

“ What’s the matter, sir,” he asked sharply, 
“ has anything gone wrong ? ” 

The Judge stood on the threshold, his face 
white with excitement. In his hands was a 
letter, and his voice shook as he spoke. 

“ It’s nothing bad, Perkins,” he said, and 
Judy, as she faced him, saw that his eyes were 
bright with some new hope. “ It’s nothing 
bad. But I’ve had a letter — a strange, strange 
letter, Perkins — and I must go on a journey 
to-night—a journey to the north—to New¬ 
foundland, Perkins.” 




CHAPTER XVII 

MOODS AND MODELS 

A NNE and Judy were almost overcome 
by the mystery of the Judge’s depart¬ 
ure. Not a word could they get out 
of the reticent Perkins, however, as to the 
reasons for the sudden flitting, and the Judge 
had simply said when pressed with questions: 
“ Important business, my dear, which may 
result rather pleasantly for you. Mrs. Adams 
will take care of you and Anne while I am 
gone, which I hope won’t be long.” 

The day that he left it rained, and the day 
after, and the day after that, and on the fourth 
day, when the sea was gray and the sky was 
gray and the world seemed blotted out by the 
blinding torrents, Judy, who had been pacing 
through the house like a caged wild thing, 
came into the library, and found Anne curled 
up in the window-seat with a book. 

*D8 


MOODS AND MODELS 


209 


“ I came down here with all sorts of good 
resolutions,” she said, fiercely, as she stood 
by the window, looking out, “ but if this rain 
doesn’t stop, I shall do something desperate. 
I hate to be shut in.” 

Anne did not look up. She was reading a 
book breathlessly, and not until Judy had 
jerked it out of her hand and had flung it 
across the room did she come to herself with 
a little cry. 

“ I shall do something desperate,” reiterated 
Judy, stormily. “ Do you hear, Anne ? ” 

Anne smiled up at her — a preoccupied 
smile. 

“ Oh, Judy,” she said, still seeing the visions 
conjured up by her book. “ Oh, Judy, you 
ought to read this — ” 

“ You know I don’t like to read, Anne.” 
Judy’s tone was irritable. 

“ You would like this,” said Anne, gently, 
as she drew Judy down beside her. “ It’s 
about the sea.” She opened the despised book 
at the place where she had been reading when 
Judy plucked it out of her hand. “ Listen.” 

Judy did listen, but with her sullen eyes 



210 


JUDY 


staring out of the window and her shoulders 
hunched up aggressively. When Anne stopped 
however, she said: “ Go on,” and when the 
chapter was finished, she asked, “ Who 
wrote that ? ” 

“ Robert Louis Stevenson. He was a lovely 
man, and he wrote lovely books, and he died, 
and they buried him in Samoa on the top of 
a mountain. He wrote some verses called 
‘ Requiem.’ I think you would like them, 
Judy.” 

“ What are they ? ” 

Anne quoted softly, her sweet little voice 
deep with feeling, and her blue eyes dark with 
emotion. 

“ ‘ Under the wide and stormy sky, 

Dig the grave and let me lie, 

Glad did I live and gladly die, 

And I laid me down with a will. 

u ‘ This be the verse you grave for me: 

“ Here he lies where he longed to be; 

Home is the sailor — home from the sea, 

And the hunter home from the hill. ” ’ ” 

“ * Home is the sailor, home from the sea —’ ” 
echoed Judy, under her breath. “ How fine 



MOODS AND MODELS 


211 


that he could say it like that, Anne. Tell me 
about him.” 

All the discontent had gone from her face, 
and she lay back among the cushions of the 
window-seat quietly, while Anne told her of 
the young life that had ended in a land of 
exile. Of a singer whose song had been stilled 
so soon, but who would not be forgotten as 
long as men honor a brave heart and a gentle 
spirit. 

“ Let me see the book,” and Judy stretched 
out her hand, and Anne gave her “ Kid¬ 
napped ” unselfishly, glad to see the softened 
look in Judy’s eyes, and as the morning passed 
and the two girls read on and on, they did not 
notice that the rain had stopped and that the 
parted clouds showed a gleam of watery sun # 

And when lunch was announced, Judy laid 
her book down with a sigh, and after lunch, in 
spite of clearing weather, she read until 
twilight, and having finished one book, would 
have started another, if Anne had not 
protested. 

“ You will wear yourself out,” she said, as 
the intense Judy looked up with blurred eyes 



212 


JUDY 


and wrinkled forehead. “ Let’s have a run on 
the beach.” 

Judy never did anything by halves, and after 
her introduction to books that she liked, she 
outread Anne. And as time went on it was her 
books that soothed her in her restless moods, 
and because there were in her father’s library 
the writings of the greatest men and the best 
men who have given their thoughts to the 
world, Judy was gradually molded into 
finer girlhood, finer womanhood, than could 
have come to her by any other associa¬ 
tion. 

She read Stevenson through in a week, and 
then began on Ruskin; for her thoughtful 
mind, starved so long of food that it needed, 
craved solid things, and Judy, who knew much 
of pictures and paintings, found in Ruskin’s 
theories a great deal that delighted and 
interested her. 

“ You’ll never get through,” said Anne, 
with a dismayed glance at the long rows of 
brown volumes high up on the shelves. “ I 
don’t like anything but stories, and Ruskin 
preaches awfully.” 




MOODS AND MODELS 


213 


“ You ought to like him, then,” said Judy, 
wickedly, “ you good little Anne.” 

Oh, don t, protested Anne, reproach¬ 
fully, “ don’t call me that, Judy.” 

“ Well, bad little Anne, then,” said Judy, 
composedly, from the top of the step-ladder, 
where she was examining the titles of the books 
and enjoying herself generally. 

** You’re such a tease,” said Anne with a sigh. 

“ And you are so serious, little Annekins,” 
and Judy smiled down at her. 

“ I like Ruskin,” she announced, later. 
“ He’s a little hard to understand sometimes, 
but he knows a lot about art. I am going to 
take up my drawing again. He says that youth 
is the time to do things, and a girl ought not 
to fritter away her time.” 

“ No, indeed,” said Anne, virtuously. 
“ Only don’t get too tired, Judy.” 

But it was Anne who was tired, before 
Judy’s enthusiasm wore itself out, for she was 
pressed into service as a model, and she served 
in turn as A Blind Girl, A Dancing Girl, A 
Greek Maiden, Rebecca at the Well, Mar¬ 
guerite, and Lorelei. 




214 


JUDY 


The last was an inspiration. Anne perched 
on a rock around which the breakers dashed 
appropriately, with her hair down, and with 
filmy garments fluttering in the wind, combed 
her golden locks in the heat of the blazing 
sun. 

“ It’s broiling hot out here, Judy,” she 
complained as that indefatigable artist sat on 
the beach with her easel before her, in a blue 
work-apron, and with a dab of charcoal on 
her nose. 

“ Oh, you look just lovely, Anne,” Judy 
assured her, with the cruel indifference of 
genius. 64 You’re just lovely. I think this is 
the best I have done yet. Think what a 
picture you will make.” 

“ Think how my nose will peel,” mourned 
Anne, forlornly. 

“ Die schonste Jungfran sitzet 
Dort oben wunderbar, 

Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet, 

Sie k&mmt ihr gold’nes Haar.” 

sang Judy, whose residence abroad had made 
her familiar with many folk-songs. 



MOODS AND MODELS 


215 


Sie kammt es mit gold’nem Kamme, 

Und singt ein Lied dabei; ” 

“ — Anne, you have the loveliest hair,” she 
interrupted her song to say. 

But Anne was tired. “ I don’t think that 
the Lorelei was very nice,” she said, “ to 
make men drown themselves just because 
she wants to comb her hair on a rock — ” 

“ She didn’t care,” said Judy, sagely. 
“ The men didn’t have to let their old boats 
be wrecked.” 

“ But her voice was so wonderful they just 
had to follow — ” 

“ No, they didn’t,” declared Judy. “ You 
just ask your grandmother. She says nobody 
has to go where they don’t want to go, and I 
think she is right, and if those sailors had sailed 
away the minute they heard the Lorelei begin 
to sing they would have been safe.” 

“ Well, maybe they would,” agreed Anne, 
hastily, for Judy had stopped work to talk. 
“ Judy, I shall fall off this rock if you don’t 
finish pretty soon.” 

“ All right, Annekins, just one minute,” 



216 


JUDY 


and Judy dashed in a drowning sailor or two, 
fluffed the heroine’s hair into entrancing curli¬ 
ness, added a few extra rays to the sparkling 
comb, and held up the sketch. 

“ There,” she said, triumphantly. 

Anne slid from the rock, and waded in to 
look. 

“ It isn’t a bit like me,” she criticized, 
holding up her wet and flowing draperies. 

“ Well, you see I couldn’t put in your 
dimples and your chubbiness, for although 
they are dear in you, Anne, they are not 
suitable for the purposes of art,” and Judy 
stood back with a grown-up air and gazed 
upon her masterpiece. Then she caught Anne 
around the waist and danced with her on the 
beach. 

“Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen 
Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn; 

Und das hat mit ihrem Singen 
Die Lorelei gethan.” 

“ You wicked little Lorelei,” she panted, 
as they sat down on the sand. 

“ I’m not wicked,” said Anne, composedly. 



MOODS AND MODELS 


217 


“ and the next time you use me for a model, 
Judy, I wish you would get an easier place 
than on that old rock.” 

“ You shall be Juliet in the tomb,” prom¬ 
ised Judy, “ and you can go to sleep if you 
want to.” 

But she let Anne rest for awhile, and used 
Perkins as a model. 

Her first sketch of him was very clever — 
a sketch in which the stately butler posed as 
“ The Neptune of the Kitchen.” He sat on 
a great turtle, with a toasting-fork instead of 
a trident, with a necklace of oyster crackers, 
a crown of pickles, and a smile that was truly 
Perkins’s own. 

That sketch taught Judy her niche in the 
temple of art. She was not destined to be a 
great artist, but she had a keen wit, and a 
knack of discovering fun in everything, and in 
later years it was in caricature, not unkind, 
but truly humorous, that Judy made her 
greatest successes, and achieved some little 
fame. 



CHAPTER XVIII 


JUDY KEEPS A PROMISE 

“W THAT’S your talent, Anne? ” asked 
^ V Judy, one evening, as she lay on 
the couch reading “ Sesame and 
Lilies.” It was raining again outside, but. in 
the fireplace a great fire was blazing, and rosy 
little Anne was in front of it, popping corn. 

“ Haven’t any,” said Anne, watching the 
white kernels bob up and down. 44 I can’t 
draw and I can’t play, and I can’t sing or 
converse — or anything.” 

Judy looked at her thoughtfully. “ Well, 
we will have to find something that you can 
do,” she said, for Judy liked to lead and 
have others follow, and having decided upon 
art as her life-work, she wanted Anne to choose 
a similar path. “ I wish I could take up book¬ 
binding or wood-carving, or — or dentistry — ” 
“ Why, Judy Jameson.” Anne turned an 

21S 


JUDY KEEPS A PROMISE 


219 


amazed hot face towards her. “ Why, Judy, 
you wouldn’t like to pull teeth, would you ? ” 

“ It isn’t what we like to do, Ruskin says,” 
said Judy, calmly, “ it’s usefulness that counts.” 

“ Oh, well, I can wash dishes and dust and 
take care of old people and pets,” said placid 
Anne, opening the cover of the popper and 
letting out delicious whiffs of hot corn. 

Judy shuddered. “ I hate those things,” 
she said. “ I couldn’t wash dishes, Anne. 
It is so dreadful for your hands.” 

She went back to her book, and Anne 
poured the hot corn into a big bowl and salted 
it. 

“ Have some ? ” she asked the absorbed 
reader. 

Without taking her eyes from her book, 
Judy stretched out her hand, then all at once 
she flashed a glance into the rosy face so close 


to her ow r n. 

“ Anne,” she said, almost humbly, “ do 
you know you are more of a Ruskin girl than 
I am? He says that every girl, every day, 
should do something really useful about the 
house — go into the kitchen, and sew, and 



220 


JUDY 


learn how to fold table-cloths, and things like 
that. And you know all of those things — 
and how to help the poor — and I — I am 
always trying to do some great thing, and I 
never really help any one. Not any one, 
Anne — not a single soul — ” 

“ But you are so clever,” said little Anne. 

“ But people don’t love you just because 
you are clever, and it isn’t clever people that 
make others the happiest,” and Judy dropped 
her book and gazed deep into the flames as if 
seeking there an answer to the problems of life. 

“ People love you, Judy.” 

“ Sometimes they do, and some people — 
but my awful temper, Anne,” and Judy sighed. 

“ You don’t flare up half as much as you 
used.” Anne’s tone was consoling. She had 
finished popping the corn, and she sat down 
on the floor beside the couch on which Judy 
lay, and munched the crisp kernels luxuriously. 

“ No, I don’t,” confessed Judy, “ but it’s an 
awful fight, Anne. You have helped me a 
lot.” 

“ Me ? ” asked the rosy maiden in astonish¬ 
ment. “ Why, how have I helped you, Judy ? 




JUDY KEEPS A PROMISE 


221 


“ By your example, Annekins,” said Judy, 
sitting up. “ You’re such a dear.” 

At which praise the rosy maiden got rosier 
than ever, and shook her loosened hair over 
her happy eyes. 

The firelight flickered on the beautiful dark 
face on the cushions, and on the fair little one 
that rested against Judy’s dress. 

“We are such friends, aren’t we, Judy?” 
whispered Anne, as she reached up and 
curled her plump hand into Judy’s slender 
fingers. “ Almost like sisters, aren’t we, 
Judy ? ” 

“ Just like sisters, Annekins,” said Judy, 
dreamily, with a responsive pressure. 

Outside the wind moaned and groaned, 
and the rain beat against the panes. “ I 
have never seen such a rainy season,” said 
Judy, as a blast shook the house. “ But I 
rather like it when we are so cozy and warm 
and happy, Anne.” 

The pop-corn was all eaten, and Anne was 
gazing into the fire, half asleep, when sud¬ 
denly she started up. 

“ What’s that, Judy ? ” she cried. 



222 


JUDY 


Judy raised her eyes from her book. 
“ What ? ” she asked, abstractedly. 

“ That sound at the window.” 

“ I didn’t hear anything.” 

“ It was like a rap.” 

“ It was the rain.” 

“ Well, maybe it was,” and Anne settled 
back again. Presently her hand slipped and 
dropped, and Judy, feeling the movement, 
looked down and smiled, for little Anne was 
asleep. 

Judy tucked a cushion behind the weary 
head, and was settling back for another quiet 
hour with her book, when all at once she sat 
up straight, listening. 

Then she rolled from the couch quickly, 
without waking Anne, and went to the window 
and peered out. She could see nothing but 
the driving rain, but as she turned to leave 
there came again the sound that had startled 
her. 

The window was a French one, opening 
outward. Very softly she unlatched it. 

“ Who’s there ? ” she asked, wondering if 
she should have called Perkins. 



JUDY KEEPS A PROMISE 


223 


“ Come to the door,” said a voice, and a 
dripping figure appeared within the circle of 
light. “ Come out a minute. It’s me — 
Tommy Tolliver.” 

Anne slept on as Judy went out and closed 
the door behind her. 

“ Why, Tommy,” she said, trying to see 
him in the darkness, “ how in the world did 
you get down here ? ” 

“ I have run away again,” said Tommy, 
defiantly, “ and I’ve come to you to help me, 
Judy.” 

“ What! ” 

“ You said you would help me, Judy. 
That’s why I came.” 

“ But — ” 

“ Oh, don’t try to get out of it,” blazed 
Tommy, who was wet and tired and shivering, 
“ you said you would. And if you back down 
now— W ell — ” He left the sentence un¬ 
finished and his voice broke. 

“ When did I promise, Tommy ? ” asked 
poor Judy, in a dazed way. 

“ The day I came back to Fairfax.” 

It seemed like a dream to Judy, that day 



224 


JUDY 


in the woods when she had first met the 
children of Fairfax, — Launcelot and Amelia 
and Nannie, — and she had entirely forgotten 
her reckless promise. 

“ Sit down,” she faltered, “and tell me 
what you want me to do.” 

At the side of the house w T here they were 
sheltered somewhat from the rain Tommy 
outlined his plan. 

“ I want you to take me down the bay in 
your sailboat. I had money enough to get 
here, and if you can help me to get to the 
Point, a friend of mine has promised me a 
place on one of the ocean liners.” 

“ But Tommy — ” 

“ Don’t say ‘ but ’ to me, Judy,” and 
Judy recognized a new note in Tommy’s 
voice. There was less of the old, weak 
swagger, and more determination. “ I am 
going, and that’s all there is to it.” 

“ When do you want to start ? ” she asked, 
after a pause. 

“ The first thing in the morning, if you can 
get away,” said Tommy. 

“ I can’t go until evening. We are to spend 




JUDY KEEPS A PROMISE 


225 


the day with some friends of ours, the Bartons. 
But I can take you down by moonlight. It’s 
a couple of hours’ ride. I suppose we shall 
have to tell Anne.” 

“ I hate to,” said Tommy. 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Oh, Anne is such a good little thing — 
and — and — she believes in me — 
Judy—” 

“ But if it is right for you to go, you shouldn’t 
care — ” 

“ I don’t know whether it is right or not,” 
said Tommy, doggedly, “ and what’s more, 
I don’t care, Judy. I am going and that’s 
the end of it.” 

“ Well! ” Judy stood up, shivering. “ It’s 
awfully cold out here, Tommy; you’d better 
come in.” 

“ Are you going to help me ? ” demanded 
Tommy. “ I sha’n’t go in unless you are.” 

“ What will you do ? ” 

“ Tramp on. Guess I can manage for 
another day. I’ve only had a slice of bread 
and a tomato to-day.” 

“ Tommy Tolliver! ” said Judy, shocked. 



226 


JUDY 


“ Why, you must be starved. I’ll go right in 
and get you something.” 

“ Are you going to help me to get away P ” 
he insisted. 

“ I must think about it.” 

“ But you promised.” 

“ I am not sure that I exactly promised,” 
hesitated Judy. 

“ You’re afraid.” 

“ I am not.” 

“ Aw, you are — or you’d do it.” 

That was touching Judy on a tender point. 
She was proud of her courage — none of her 
race had ever been cowards. 

Besides, as she stood there with the wind 
and the weaves beating their wild song into her 
ears, all the recklessness of her nature came 
uppermost. It would be glorious to sail down 
the bay. The water would be rough, and the 
wind would fill out the white sails of the little 
boat, and they would fly, fly, and the goal for 
Tommy would be freedom. 

“ I’ll do it,” she said, suddenly. “ I’ll do 
it, Tommy. We Jamesons never break a 
promise, and I’m not afraid.” 




JUDY KEEPS A PROMISE 




They decided not to tell Anne. 

“ It would just worry her,” said Judy, 
decidedly, “ and I can get some food and 
things out to you after Anne goes to bed, and 
you can sleep in the boat-house. We can 
start in the morning.” 

It was a wild scheme, but before they had 
finished they felt quite uplifted. In their 
youth and inexperience, they imagined that 
Tommy’s last dash for liberty was positively 
heroic, and Judy went in, feeling like one 
dedicated to a cause. 

She found Anne rubbing her eyes sleepily. 

“ Why, have you been out, Judy ? ” she 
gasped, wide awake. “ You are all wet.” 

“ It’s fine on the porch,” said Judy, putting 
her soaked hair back from her face. “I — 
I was tired of the heat of the room, and — 
it was stifling. Let’s go to bed, Anne.” 

“ Aren’t you going to finish your book ? ” 
Anne asked, wondering, for Judy was some¬ 
thing of a night-owl, and hated early hours. 

Judy picked up “ Sesame and Lilies,” 
which lay open on the couch, and shut it with 
a bang. 




228 


JUDY 


“ No,” she said, shortly, “ I am not going 
to finish it to-night — I don’t know whether 
I shall ever finish it, Anne. I’m not Ruskin’s 
kind of girl, Anne. I can’t ‘ sit on a cushion 
and sew a fine seam,’ and I don’t think it is 
any use for me to try.” 

Anne stared at the change that had come 
over her. “ Well, you are my kind of girl,” 
she said at last, and as they went up-stairs 
together, she slipped her hand into Judy’s 
arm. “ I love you, dearly, Judy,” she said. 

But Judy smiled down at her vaguely, for 
her mind was on Tommy, crouched out there 
in the rain, and in imagination she was not 
Judy Jametson, commonplacely going to bed 
at nine o’clock, but a heroine of history, 
dedicated to the cause of one Thomas, the 
Downtrodden. 



CHAPTER XIX 

PERKINS CLEANS THE SILVER 

A LL the next day. Tommy skulked in 
the shadow of the pier and in the 
boat-house, whence during the morn¬ 
ing Judy made her way laden with mysterious 
bundles and various baggage. At noon she 
departed for Lutie Barton’s, leaving Anne, 
who had a cold, at home. 

After Judy’s departure, Anne wandered 
listlessly about the house. She tried to read, 
to sew a little, to pick out some simple tunes 
on Judy’s piano, but thoughts of the little 
gray house, of the little grandmother, of Becky 
and Belinda, came between her and her occu¬ 
pations, so that at last, late in the afternoon, 
she sought the society of Perkins, who was in 
the dining-room cleaning silver. 

“ I believe I am homesick, Perkins,” said 

229 


230 


JUDY 


Anne, perching herself in a great mahogany 
chair opposite him. 

“ Well, it ain’t to be wondered at,” said 
Perkins, as he picked up a huge cake-dish 
and began to work on it, energetically. “ It 
ain’t to be wondered at. You ain’t ever been 
away from home much, Miss Anne.” 

“It is lovely not to have anything to do,” 
said Anne. “ That is, it is nice in a way, but 
do you know, Perkins, I sometimes just wish 
there were some rooms to dust or something, 
but you and the maids keep everything so 
clean,” and Anne sighed a sigh that came from 
the depths of her housewifely soul. 

“ You might dip these cups in hot water 
and wipe them as I gets them finished,” 
suggested Perkins, handing her several quaint 
little mugs, which he had placed in a row in 
front of him. 

“ Aren’t they dear,” Anne said, enthusias¬ 
tically. “ Why this one says ‘Judith.’ Is 
it Judy’s, Perkins ? ” 

“No, Miss, that was her great-grand¬ 
mother’s, and that one with ‘ John ’ on it is 
the Judge’s, and the one with ‘ Philip ’ is 



PERKINS CLEANS THE SILVER 231 


Miss Judy’s father’s — they are christening 
cups, Miss — six generations of them.” 

“ Oh, how lovely,” said Anne, and she 
handled them lovingly, dipping them into 
clear hot water, and polishing them until they 
shone. 

“ Judy never speaks of her father, lately,” 
she said, as she placed the “ Philip ” cup on 
the sideboard. 

“ No, Miss, but she thinks of him a lot,” 
said Perkins, with a shake of his old head. 
“ I saw her this morning, Miss, standing in 
front of his picture in the hall, and there were 
tears in her eyes, Miss, and then all at once 
she whirled around and ran away, and her 
face had a wild look on it, Miss.” 

“ Do you know, Perkins,” said little Anne, 
stopping work for a minute and speaking 
earnestly, “ do you know that I think Judy 
would be different if she only knew something 
about him. The uncertainty makes her un¬ 
happy, and then she does reckless things just 
to get away from herself.” 

“ Yes, Miss,” said Perkins, “ and there 
ain’t a morning that she don’t put fresh flowers 



232 


JUDY 


in front of that there picture, and there ain’t 
a night that she don’t kiss her hand to it from 
the top of the stairs.” 

“ I know,” sighed Anne. “ Poor Judy.” 

“ When will the Judge be back ? ” she asked 
after awhile. 

But at that Perkins shut up like a clam. 
“ I don’t know, Miss,” he snapped. “ It’s 
best for you not to ask too many questions, 
Miss.” 

Anne flushed. “ Oh, of course I won’t, 
Perkins,” she said, “ if you don’t like to have 
me — ” and she was very quiet, until the old 
butler, with a glance at her troubled face, said, 
“ I don’t care how many questions you axes, 
Miss, but the Judge might.” 

And Anne smiled at him, with radiant 
forgiveness. 

“ Isn’t all this silver a lot of care, Perkins ? ” 
she asked, to clear the air. 

“ It is that,” answered Perkins, “ and 
yet there isn’t half as much of it as there is at 
the Judge’s in Fairfax. Only the Judge keeps 
his locked up in a safe, all except the things we 
uses every day. But here they just puts it on 




PERKINS GLEANS THE SILVER 233 


the sideboard, where it is a temptation to 
burglars — with them long windows opening 
out on the porch, and the curtains drawn back 
half the time. I don’t call it safe, Miss, I 
surely don’t.” 

“ But there aren’t any burglars around here, 
are there, Perkins ? ” and Anne stopped 
rubbing the cups to look at him anxiously. 

“ Nobody knows whether there is or not,” 
grumbled Perkins. “ There might be for all 
they know. It ain’t fair to the servants, Miss, 
for to let them lie around loose this way. Mrs. 
Adams says so, too, but the Judge don’t pay 
no attention to things since the Captain left, 
and Miss Judy is too young to bother.” 

“ They wouldn’t like to lose these cups,” 
said Anne, as she finished the last one, and 
arranged them in a squat little row on the shelf. 

“ They wouldn’t like to lose any of it,” 
returned Perkins, putting a great soup-ladle 
back into its flannel bag. “ It’s all old and it’s 
all family silver, and people ought to take care 
of it, and w r hen the Judge comes back I am 
going to tell him so, Miss.” 

“ Anne,” said Judy, peeping in at the door, 



234 


JUDY 


“ I’m back, and Lutie Barton is with me. 
Come on in and see her.” 

“ Oh, dear,” said Anne, with a dismayed 
glance at her spattered apron, “ I look like 
a sight.” 

“ Run up the back way and fix up,” said 
Judy, “ and I’ll talk to her until you come 
down.” 

Lutie Barton brought with her the gossip 
of the town. There had been a dance at the 
big hotel the night before, a sailing party 
down the bay in the afternoon had been caught 
in a thunder shower, and all the girls’ hats had 
been ruined , and there had been a burglary at 
one of the cottages in an outlying district. 

Anne jumped when they said that. “ What 
did they steal ? ” she faltered, with her 
conversation with Perkins fresh in her 
mind. 

“ Everything , my dear,” said Lutie, who 
did everything by extremes, and who wore the 
highest pompadour, and the highest heels, 
and who had the smallest waist and the largest 
hat that A*ftie had ever seen, and who always 
used the superlative when telling a tale. 



PERKINS CLEANS THE SILVER 235 


“ They stole every single thing down to the 
Veiy shoes, and the kitten from the rug.” 

“ Oh,” said Anne, thinking of Belinda, 
“ the dear little kitten. What did they want 
with it ? ” 

“ It was a Persian, and this morning it 
came back, but the silver collar was gone 
from its neck, and they took even a thimble 
from a work-basket, and a box of candy and a 
cake! ” 

“ Did they get anything valuable P ” asked 
Anne. 

“ All of Mrs. Durant’s diamonds and the 
family silver,” said Lutie. “ My dear, Mrs. 
Durant is ill, absolutely ill , and the worst 
of it is that she saw the burglar, and it 
frightened her so that she hasn’t gotten over 
it yet.” 

“ How dreadful,” said little Anne, thinking 
of the great sideboard and all of the Jameson 
silver that she and Perkins had cleaned. Oh, 
Judy, suppose they should come here! 

But Judy was standing by the window, 
watching a figure that slipped from the boat¬ 
house to the wharf with a bundle on his 





236 


JUDY 


shoulder, the figure of a small boy, with his 
cap pulled low. 

“ Such things are like lightning; they never 
strike twice in the same place, ” she said, 
indifferently. 44 Don’t go, Lutie.” 

44 Oh, I must” gushed Lutie. 44 I was just 
dying to see you, Anne, for a minute, so I 
came with Judy. But I must go. They will 
think I am dead” 

But she stopped to ask a giggling question. 
44 Tell me about Launcelot Bart, Anne,” she 
begged. “ Judy happened to mention him, 
but she wouldn’t tell me a thing. I think they 
must have an awful case, for she is too quiet 
about him for anything . Is he nice ? ” 

44 He is the nicest boy I know,” said Anne, 
enthusiastically. 

44 Oh, oh,” gurgled silly Lutie, shaking 
her finger at the two girls as they stood to¬ 
gether on the top step of the porch. “ Don’t 
get jealous of each other, you two.” 

44 Jealous ? ” asked Anne’s innocent eyes. 

44 Jealous? ” blazed Judy’s indignant eyes. 

44 Don’t be a goose, Lutie.” Judy was try¬ 
ing to control her temper. 44 Anne and I 



PERKINS CLEANS THE SILVER 237 


aren’t grown up yet, and I hope we never will 
grow up and be horrid and self-conscious. 
Launcelot is our friend, and I didn’t talk about 
him because I had plenty of other subjects.” 

“ Oh,” murmured Lutie, subdued for the 
moment; but she recovered as she went down 
the walk. “ Oh, good-bye ,” she gushed; “ let 
me know when it is to be, and I will dance at 
your wedding.” 

“ Anne,” said Judy, darkly, as the high 
heels tilted dowm the beach, and the feathers 
of the big hat fluttered in the breeze, “ Anne, 
she hasn’t talked a thing to-day but boys — 
and she reads the silliest books and writes the 
silliest poetry, about flaming hearts and 
Cupid’s darts. Oh,” and Judy stretched 
out her arms in a tense movement, “ I don’t 
want to grow up — I want to stay a little girl 
as long as I can and not think about lovers 
or getting married, or — or — anything — ” 

“ You are lover enough for me,” said Anne. 

“ And you for me,” said Judy. 

And arm in arm they went into the house. 

But as they went through the darkening 
hall, Anne clung tightly to Judy. 



238 


JUDY 


“ Wouldn’t it be dreadful, Judy, if burglars 
should come here,” she quavered. 

But Judy laughed. “ I think it would be 
fun,” she jested. “ Bring on your burglars, 
Anne. I’m dying for excitement, as Lutie 
Barton would say.” And then she touched 
a button, and the lights flared up, chasing 
away the shadows, and chasing away with 
them, for the moment, the fears of little Anne. 



CHAPTER XX 


ANNE HEARS A BURGLAR 

A NNE was wakened that night by a 
sense of utter loneliness. 

“ Judy,” she called, softly. 

No answer. 

“ Judy.” 

Anne reached over and found that the covers 
of the little white bed that stood beside her 
own had not been disturbed. 

4 ‘ She hasn't come up-stairs,” thought Anne, 
who had left Judy reading in the library 
when she went to bed. 

There was no light in the room, and as 
little Anne lay there, trembling and listening, 
her breath came quickly, for she was a timid 
little soul, and the talk of burglars that day 
had upset her; and without the wind howled, 
and within the house was very, very still. 

At last she heard a sound. “ She’s coming,” 

239 


240 


JUDY 


she thought, thankfully, but all at once she 
became conscious that the sound was not in 
the upper hall, but down-stairs on the porch. 

There was the quick patter of little feet, 
and then an appealing whine. 

“ Why, it's a dog,” said Anne, sitting up 
straight, “ It’s a dog.” 

She got up and looked out of the window. 
A little short-eared, stubby-tailed Boston terrier 
was running back and forth on the sand, 
anxiously. 

Anne was a tender-hearted lover of animals, 
and his apparent distress appealed to her. 

“ I’ll go down and see what’s the matter 
with him,” she decided, thrusting her feet 
into her slippers and tying the ribbons of her 
pink dressing-gown. 

She flew down the long dark hall to the top 
of the steps that led below, and there she 
stopped still, with her hand on her heart. 

The fire in the hall was still burning, and 
the flames wavered fitfully over the great 
picture above the mantel, and on the jar of 
red roses in front of it. The rest of the hall 
was in the shadow, and darker than the 



ANNE HEARS A BURGLAR 


241 


shadows, Anne had made out the figure of a 
man standing on the threshold. 

As she gazed, he crossed the room and stood 
in front of the fire, his eyes raised to the 
great picture. Suddenly he leaned forward 
and took one of the red roses from the jar. 

“ He is even stealing the roses,’’ thought 
Anne, indignantly, but then, what could you 
expect of a man who would carry off boxes of 
candy and thimbles and kittens ? 

She was sure it was the Durant burglar, 
and she dropped to the floor cautiously, and 
crouched there. Outside she could still hear 
the whine of the dog, but she had no thought 
of going to him now — she could not pass that 
silent figure on the rug. 

Then, all at once, she thought of Judy. 
She was in the library, and there was just one 
room between her and the burglar! 

Anne wasn’t brave, and never had been, 
but in that moment she forgot herself, forgot 
everything but that Judy was not well and 
must not be frightened at any cost. Judy 
must not see the burglar. 

As the man moved across the hall Anne 




242 


JUDY 


staggered to her feet, feeling along the wall 
for the electric button, and then suddenly the 
lights flared up, and the little girl, a desperate 
pink figure clinging to the stair-rail, looked 
down into the upraised face of the man below. 

“ Don’t,” she said, with white lips, “ don’t 
— go — in — there — ” 

As she stared at him in a blur of fright she 
was conscious of wondering if all burglars 
looked so gentlemanly — if — why, where had 
she seen his face f 

“ Judy,” breathed the man, and his whisper 
seemed to thunder in her ears as he came up 
the stairway two steps at a time. 

Anne gave a little scream, half fright, half 
delight. 

“ Oh — ” Why, his face was familiar — 
it was the face of the man in the picture over 
the fireplace! 

“ Judy,” he said, again, as he reached her 
and caught her in his arms. But as her yellow 
hair flowed over his coat, he laughed excitedly 
and put her from him. “ I beg pardon,” he 
apologized. “ I thought you were Judy.” 

“ And I thought you were a burglar,” 



ANNE HEARS A BURGLAR 


243 


quavered Anne, as she sat down on the top 
step weakly. 

Her fair little face was alight with joy as 
she held out her hand. “ Oh,” she said, 
“ you are Judy’s father, and you are alive, 
you are really alive ! ” 

“ And you are Anne,” said the Captain. 

“ How did you know ? ” wondering. 

“ The Judge told me.” / 

“ Where did you see the Judge ? ” she asked. 
“ He has been with me ever since he left 
here,” said the Captain. “ Dr. Grennell 
discovered me in a hospital in Newfoundland, 
and I was very ill, and he sent for father, and 
he has been with me ever since. And he has 
gone straight to Fairfax, for he isn’t very well. 
But I had to see my girl. Did I wake you P ” 
“ I heard the dog.” 

“ Terry ? I brought him to Judy, and left 
him outside so he wouldn’t startle the house. 
Where is my girl — where is she, Anne ? ” 

“ Oh, she’s in the library,” said Anne. 
“ I’ll call her. Oh, how happy she will be! 
How happy she will be ! ” She sang it like a 
little song, as she flitted through the hall. 




244 


JUDY 


At the same moment the electric bell of the 
front door thrilled through the house, and the 
Captain opened the door quickly. 

Preceded by a blast of wind, and the scurry¬ 
ing Terry-dog, Launcelot Bart came in. He 
stood irresolute as he saw the strange man on 
the rug, and before either could speak, Anne 
came running back. 

Her face was white and her hands were 
shaking. She did not seem to see Launcelot, 
but went straight up to Captain Jameson. 

“ Oh, where is Judy, where is Judy ? ” she 
wailed, “ she isn’t there.” 

“And where is Tommy Tolliver?” de¬ 
manded Launcelot Bart. 



CHAPTER XXI 


CAPTAIN JUDY 

G EE, Judy, but you can sail a boat/’ 
Judy with the salt breeze blowing 
her hair back from her face, with 
her hand on the tiller, and with her eager eyes 
sweeping the surface of the moonlighted 
waters, smiled a little. 

“ I ought to,” she declared, “ father 
taught me. He said that he didn’t have a son, 
so he intended that I should know as much as 
a boy about such things.” 

“ It’s mighty windy weather.” Tommy was 
hunched up in the bottom of the boat — and 
his face had the woebegone look of the 
inexperienced sailor. 

“ It’s going to be windier,” said Judy, 
wisely, “ it’s coming now. Look at those 
clouds.” 

Back of the moon a heavy bank of clouds 

245 


246 


JUDY 


was crested with white, and the waters of the 
bay heaved sullenly. 

Tommy, ignorant little landlubber that he 
was, began to wish that he had stayed at 
home, but Judy was exalted, uplifted by the 
thought of a coming battle with wind and 
waves. She had fought them so often in the 
little white boat, but one thing she forgot, that 
she was not as strong as she had been, and 
that Tommy was not as helpful as her father. 

The start had been very exciting. Judy 
had pretended to read in the library, and little 
Anne had gone to bed, and then when the 
house was still she had crept out, and had met 
Tommy, and together they had gotten “ The 
Princess ” under sail. 

But more than once that day Judy’s heart 
had failed her. The Cause had looked 
rather silly on second thoughts, and Tommy 
w r as so commonplace — but, oh, well, she had 
promised, and that was the end of it. 

Tommy was dreadfully awkward about a 
boat, too. In spite of his eagerness for a life 
on the ocean wave, he had never had any 
practical training and Judy grew impatient 



CAPTAIN JUDY 


247 


more than once at the slow way in which he 
followed out her orders. 

“ I would do it myself,” she scolded 
finally, “ only I must save my strength for the 
trip back. I shall be all alone then, you 
know.” 

Tommy sat down suddenly. “ Gracious,” 
he gasped, “ I never thought of that. Oh, 
we will have to go back. You can’t take this 
boat home alone, Judy.” 

Judy’s head went up. “ I am captain of 
this ship. Tommy Tolliver,” she declared, 
“ and I am going to sail into port and put you 
ashore. Then I shall do as I like.” 

“ Aw — ” said Tommy, appalled at this 
display of nautical knowledge, “ aw — all 
right, Captain Judy.” 

The wind came as Judy had said it would, 
filling the little sail until it looked like a white 
flower, and carrying “ The Princess ” along 
at a pace that made Tommy feel weak and 
faint. 

“ Isn’t it fine,” cried Judy, leaning forward, 
and drinking in the strong air with delight. 
“ Isn’t it glorious. Tommy ? ” 



248 


JUDY 


“ Yes/’ said Tommy, doubtfully. He was 
pale, and presently he lay down in the bottom 
of the boat. 

“ Suck a lemon,” suggested Judy, practi¬ 
cally, “ there are some in that little locker,” 
and after following her advice, Tommy re¬ 
covered sufficiently to sit up, and in the lulls 
of the gale he and Judy shrieked at each other, 
and sang songs of the sea. 

They ate a little lunch, intermittently — a 
bite of sandwich while Tommy pulled at the 
ropes or adjusted the sail, or a wing of chicken 
as Judy swung the boat with her head to the 
wind. It was all very exciting and Judy forgot 
care and the worried hearts that she had left 
behind, and Tommy, reckless in a new-found 
courage, felt that he was a true sailor and a 
son of the sea. 

But as the night wore on, and the wind 
settled into a steady blow, it took all Judy’s 
science and Tommy’s strength to keep the 
little boat in her course. The waves ran 
higher and higher, and Judy grew quiet, 
and her face was pale with fatigue. 

Tommy began to have doubts. A life on 



CAPTAIN JUDY 


249 


the ocean wave wasn’t all that it was cracked 
up to be, and anyhow, Judy was only a girl! 

“ How long before we get there,” he shouted 
amid the tumult. 

“ We ought to reach the Point in a little 
while,” said Judy, “ but — but I am not 
quite sure where we are. Tommy. I have 
always kept within sight of land before — ” 

There was no land to be seen now. The 
moon was hidden by the clouds, and on each 
side of them black water stretched out to meet 
black sky, broken only by leaping lengths of 
white foam. 

But they were not fated to reach the Point 
that night, for the wind changed, and in spite 
of all efforts to keep on their way, the little 
boat w T as blown farther and farther out into 
the great, wide waters of the bay. 

“ Is there any danger ? ” questioned Tommy 
as the foam boiled up on each side of the 
boat, drenching both himself and Judy, 
whose face, white as a pearl, showed through 
the gloom. 

But Judy did not answer at once. She 
waited until she could make herself heard in 



250 


JUDY 


a lull of the wind, and then she admitted, 
“ We shall have to stay out all night, I am 
afraid.” 

“ All night,” gasped Tommy. “ Oh, Judy, 
ain't it awful.” 

“ No,” said Judy, calmly, “ not if we are 
not silly and afraid.” 

“ Oh, I’m not afraid,” swaggered Tommy, 
“ only I wish we hadn't come,” he ended, 
weakly, as the boat swooped down into the 
trough of a wave, and then rose high in the 
air. 

“ You should have told me it wasn’t safe,” 
he complained presently, “ you knew it was 
going to storm, didn’t you ? ” 

“ Well, I like that — ” Judy stared at him. 
“ Oh, try to be a man. Tommy, if you are a 
coward.” 

Tommy winced. I’m not afraid,” he 
defended. 

“ Perhaps not,” said Judy, slowly, “ but — 
but — if you had been a man you would have 
said, 4 I am sorry I asked you to bring me, 
Judy.’ ” 

“ But — ” 



CAPTAIN JUDY 


251 


44 Oh, we won’t argue.” Judy raised her 
voice as another blast came. “I — I’m too 
tired to — to argue — Tommy — ” 

She swayed back and forth, holding on to 
the tiller weakly. 

“I — I am so — tired,” she tried to laugh, 
but her face w r as ghastly. “ I — I guess I 
wasn’t very nice just now, Tommy, — but I — 
am — so tired. You will have to steer. 
Tommy.” 

44 But I don’t know how,” blubbered 
Tommy. 

44 You will just have to do it. I can’t sit 
up — ” and Judy tumbled down into the 
bottom of the boat, completely worn out from 
the unaccustomed strain. 

Tommy whimpered in a frightened mono¬ 
tone as he grasped the tiller with inexperienced 
hands. What if Judy were dead ? What — ? 
44 I’ll never do it again. I’ll never run awa — ” 
but Judy did not hear, for she lay with her eyes 
shut in a sort of stupor in the bottom of the 
boat. 

She was waked by a bump and the wash of 
the waves over the boat. 



252 


JUDY 


“ We’ve struck somewhere. Tommy,” she 
shrieked. 

“ Oh, oh,” howled Tommy, “ we’ll drown, 
Judy! ” 

“ We won’t,” she said, tensely. “ Hush, 
Tommy. Hush — do you hear ? Can you 
swim r 

“ No,” and he clutched hold of her as 
another wave broke over the boat. 

“ There’s a life-belt here somewhere,” and 
Judy threw things out in frantic haste. 
“ Here. Take hold of it, Tommy.” 

“ But — what are you going to do ? ” 

“ I can swim. Don’t mind about me, and 
if you keep quiet I will tow you in if we are 
near land.” 

She said it quietly, but in her heart she 
wondered where she would tow him. 

“ Don’t take hold of me,” she insisted, 
peremptorily, as she felt Tommy grab her 
arm, “or we shall both go under — 
oh — ” 

In that moment the boat keeled over, and 
when Judy came to the top of the water, she 
knew that between her and death in the green 



CAPTAIN JUDY 


253 


depths beneath, there was nothing but the 
strength of her frail limbs. 

“ Tommy/’ she called, as soon as she could 
get the salt water out of her mouth. 

“ Here,” came shiveringly over the face of 
the waters. 

“ Are you all right ? ” 

“ No, no, it’s horrid. Oh, I wish I was 
home — I wash I was home ”— wailed Tommy, 
clinging to the belt for dear life. 

The clouds had parted and one little star 
showed in the blackness, in the dim light 
Judy could just see Tommy’s eyes glowing 
from out of his pallid face. 

“ He is afraid,” she thought to herself, 
curiously. She was not afraid. She had never 
been afraid of the water — poor Tommy. 

She felt strangely weak, however, and all 
at once there came to her the knowledge that 
she could not keep up any longer. The 
strength of the old days was not hers — and 
she was tired — so tired — 

She caught hold of the life-belt, and as she 
did so Tommy screamed, “ Don’t, Judy. It 
won’t hold us both. Don’t — ” 




254 


JUDY 


“He is afraid,” she thought again, pity¬ 
ingly, “ and I am not, and we can’t both hold 
on to that belt — ” 

Tommy babbled crazily, bemoaning his 
danger, sobbing now and then — but Judy 
was very still. 

“ I can’t keep up much longer. I mustn’t 
try to hold on with Tommy. He is afraid — 
poor Tommy — ” she looked up at the little 
star, “ and I’m not afraid — I love the sea,” 
she thought, dreamily. Then for one moment 
she came out of her trance. 

“ Tommy, Tommy ! ” she cried sharply. 

“What?” 

“ Don’t let go of the belt. Hold on, no 
matter how tired you are. In the morning — 
some one — will save you — ” 

“ But you — wh-wh-at are you going to 
do, Judy ? ” 

“ Oh, I — ? ” she laughed faintly. “ Oh, 
I shall be all right — all right, Tommy,” and 
her voice died away in an awful silence. 




CHAPTER XXII 

THE CASTAWAYS 

TUDY — ” shrieked Tommy, and sud¬ 
denly the answer came in a choking cry 

of joy- 

“ I can touch bottom, Tommy. I thought 
I was sinking, but it isn’t over our heads at 
all. We must be near shore.” 

Tommy put his feet down gingerly. He 
had hated to think of the untold fathoms 
beneath him — depths which in his imagina¬ 
tion were strewn with shipwrecks and the 
bones of lost mariners. 

So when his feet came in contact with good 
firm sand, he giggled hysterically. 

“ Gee, but it feels good,” he said. “ Are 
you all right, Judy ? ” 

But Judy had waded in and dropped 
exhausted on the beach. 


255 


256 


JUDY 


44 I don’t know,” she said, feebly, 44 I 
guess so.” 

44 Where are we P ” asked Tommy, splash¬ 
ing his way to her side. 

He surveyed the land around them. In 
the moonlight it showed nothing but wide 
beach and back of that stiff rustling sea-grass 
and mounds of sand like the graves of sailors 
dead and gone. Not a house was in sight — 
not a sign of life. 

44 I don’t know where we are,” Judy raised 
her head for a second, then dropped it back, 
44 but we are safe, Tommy Tolliver, and that’s 
something to be thankful for. 

44 1 knew the sea wouldn’t hurt me,” she 
went on — a little wildly, perhaps, which was 
excusable after the danger she had escaped. 
44 I knew it wouldn’t hurt me.” 

44 Oh, the sea,” whined Tommy, disgustedly, 
44 this isn’t the ocean, and if just an old bay 
can act like this, why, I say give me land 
No more water for me, thank you. I am 
going home and plow — yes, I am, I am 
going to plow, Judy Jameson, and take care 
of the cows — and — and weed the garden,” 



THE CASTAWAYS 


257 


naming the thing he hated most as a climax, 
“ and when I get to thinking things are hard, 
I will remember this night — when I was a 
shipwTecked mariner/’ 

In imagination he was revelling in the story 
he would tell at home. Of the adventures 
that he would relate to the eager ears of the 
youth of Fairfax. “ Yes, indeed, I will re¬ 
member the time when I was a shipwrecked 
mariner,” he said with gusto, “ and lived 
on a desert island.” 

“ Oh, Tommy,” in spite of faintness and 
hunger and exhaustion, Judy laughed. “ Oh, 
Tommy, you funny boy — this isn’t a desert 
island.” 

“ How do you know it isn’t P ” asked 
Tommy, stubbornly. 

“ There aren’t any desert islands in the 
bay.” 

“ I’ll bet this is one.” 

“ I hope not.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ We haven’t anything to eat.” 

“ Oh, well, we will find things in the 
morning.” 



258 


JUDY 


“ Where?” 

“ On the trees. Fruit and things.” 

“ But there aren’t any trees.” 

“ Oh, well, oysters then.” 

“ How w T ill you get them — ” 

“ And fish,” ignoring difficulties. 

“ We haven’t any lines or hooks.” 

“ And things from the wreck.” 

“ The boat tipped over,” said Judy, with 
a little sobbing sigh for the capsized “ Prin¬ 
cess,” “ and anyhow there was nothing left 
to eat but some lemons and a box of crackers.” 

“ Don’t ; be so discouraging,” grumbled 
Tommy, “ you know people always find 
something.” 

They sat in silence for a time, and then 
Judy said: 

“ I hope they are not worrying at home.” 

“ Gee — they will be scared, when they 
wake up in the morning and find you gone,” 
said Tommy, consolingly. 

“ I left a note for Anne in the library, telling 
her where I had gone — but I thought I would 
get back before she found it,” said Judy — 
“ poor little Anne.” 



THE CASTAWAYS 


259 


“ I think it is poor Tommy and poor Judy,” 
said the cause of all the trouble. 

“ But we deserve it and Anne doesn't. 
And that’s the difference,” said Judy, wisely. 

“ Aw — don’t preach.” 

“ Couldn't if I tried,” and Judy clasped 
her hands around her knees and gazed out on 
the dark waters, and again there was a long 
silence. 

“ Well, what are we going to do ? ” de¬ 
manded Tommy as the night wind blew cold 
against his wet garments and made him 
shiver. 

44 Do?” 

“ Yes. We can’t sit like this all night.” 

“ Guess we shall have to.” 

Another silence. 

“ Gee, I’m hungry.” 

46 So am I.” 

“ But there isn’t anything to eat.” 

“ No.” 

Silence again. 

“ Gee — I’m sleepy.” 

“ Find some place out of the wind and go 
to sleep. I’ll watch.” 



260 


JUDY 


“ All night ? ” 

“ Perhaps. You go to sleep, Tommy.” 

“ Won’t you be lonesome ? ” 

Judy smiled wearily. “ No,” she said, 
“ you go to sleep, Tommy/’ 

And Tommy went. 

But it was not until the cold light of dawn 
touched the face of the waters, that the sentinel¬ 
like figure on the beach relaxed from its 
strained position, and then the dark head 
dropped, and with a sigh Judy stretched her 
slender body on the hard sand, and she, too, 
slept. 




She Gazed Forlornly Over the Empty \\ aters 

















CHAPTER XXIII 


IN A SILVER BOAT 

T HE tide coming in the next morning 
brought with it on the blue surface 
of the waves two bobbing lemons. 
Many times the golden globes rolled up the 
beach only to be carried back by the under¬ 
wash of the waters, but finally one wave 
rolling farther than the rest left them high 
and dry on the sand, and the same wave 
splashing over an inert and huddled up figure 
waked it to consciousness. 

Judy sat up stiffly and stared around her. 
“ Oh,” she sighed, as she remembered all 
that had happened in the darkness of the night. 

She clasped her hands around her knees 
and gazed out forlornly over the empty waters. 
Not a sail, not a trail of smoke broke the 
blueness of the bay. With another sigh, this 
time of disappointment, she turned her gaze 

261 


262 


JUDY 


landward, and beheld there nothing but lank 
marsh grass and sand and driftwood. 

And then at her feet she spied the lemons. 
She picked them up — they were the only 
salvage from the sunken boat. She looked 
around for Tommy. On the other side of a 
mound of sand, she could just see the top of 
his head, and as he did not move she decided 
that he was still asleep. 

Her eyes twinkled, as with stealthy steps 
she crept up the beach until she reached a low 
bush with scrubby sage-green foliage. On its 
spiky branches she stuck the lemons, and then 
ran swiftly back. 

Tommy was still sleeping, so she dipped 
her hands into the cold water, took off her 
stiffened shoes and bathed her swollen feet. 
Her dress had dried in the night winds, and 
when she had combed her hair she looked 
fairly presentable. 

Barefooted she tripped over the cool wet 
sands, glorying in the broad expanse of blue, 
with white gulls dipping to it from a bluer 
sky. 

“ Tommy,” she called, “ Tommy.” 



IN A SILVER BOAT 


263 


A towsled head appeared over the top of the 
mound. 

“ Oh, dear,” said Tommy, lugubriously, 
as he saw her sparkling face, “ you act as 
if being shipwrecked was a good joke, 
Judy.” 

“ The sun is shining and it is perfectly fine.” 

“ It’s perfectly horrid,” said Tommy. 

Judy looked at him for a moment, and a 
lump came in her throat. 

“ Well, it seems so much better to laugh 
over our troubles than to cry. Don’t you 
think so, Tommy ? ” she said, wistfully, and 
tears welled up into her brave eyes.” 

“ Oh, don’t cry, Judy,” begged Tommy, 
who felt that all the world would grow dark 
if Judy’s staunch heart should fail. “ Don’t 
cry, Judy.” She brushed away her tears and 
smiled at him. “ Well, get up, lazy boy,” she 
said. 

“ I’m hungry.” 

“ Well, go and hunt for something to eat.” 

“ Don’t know where to look.” 

“ Neither did Robinson Crusoe.” 

“ Oh, well, what are you going to do ? ” 



264 


JUDY 


“ Watch for some one to come and take us 
off.” 

It began to be exciting. If Tommy had not 
been so hungry, he really believed that he 
might have appreciated the adventure. But 
his soul yearned for hot cakes and maple 
syrup, or beefsteak and waffles — or at least 
for plain bread and butter. 

“ Gee, but it would taste good,” he said 
aloud. 

“What?” 

“ I was thinking of breakfast,” said poor 
Tommy, “ hot rolls and things like that, 
Judy.” 

“ O-o-oh,” said Judy, “ how about some 
hot biscuit, with one of Perkins’ omelettes — 
and — creamed potatoes ? ” 

“ Oh, don’t,” groaned hungry Tommy, 
and fled. 

He came back in about two minutes, 
swaggering with importance. 

“ This island isn’t so barren as it looks,” 
he said, pompously. “ You don’t know every¬ 
thing, Judy.” 

“ Don’t I ? 





IN A SILVER BOAT 


265 


“No. Now what do you think of these,” 
and he produced the two lemons triumphantly. 

“ Where did you find them ? ” 

“ Growing over there,” and he pointed to 
the scrubby, sage-green spiky bush. 

“ Who w T ould have believed it P ” Judy’s 
eyes were round and solemn, but the expres¬ 
sion in them should have warned Tommy. 

“ You see there are some things you don’t 
know. I’m going to look for oysters now.” 

“ Oysters — ” 

“ Yes. To eat with our lemons.” 

“ You might find some cracker fruit, and 
a coffee vine, and maybe there will be a salt 
and pepper tree somewhere — and Tommy, 
please discover a Tabasco bush — I never 
could eat my oysters without Tabasco.” 

Tommy looked at her wrathfully. “ Aw, 
Judy,” he said, with a red face, “ you’re 
foolin’ — and I think it’s mean.” 

Then a thought struck him, and he examined 
the lemons carefully. 

“ You stuck them on that bush,” he 
accused, excitedly. “ There are holes in them. 
You did it to fool me, didn’t you, Judy ? ” 




266 


JUDY 


She nodded. 

“ An’ you think it’s a joke — I — I — ” 
He could think of nothing sufficiently crushing 
to say. “ Well, I don’t, ” he finished sulkily, 
and plumped himself down on the sand, with 
his face away from her. 

“ Tommy,” she said, after a long silence, 
“ Tommy.” 

“ Huh ? ” 

“ Please be good-natured.” 

“ Be good-natured yourself,” said Tommy, 
with a half-sob. “ I’m — I’m — perfectly 
mis’able, Judy Jameson — ” 

It was then that Judy showed that she could 
be womanly and sympathetic. “ I’m sorry I 
teased you, Tommy,” she said, softly. “ Let’s 
make ourselves comfortable here on the sand, 
and I’ll tell you about when I used to live in 
Europe.” 

Tommy liked that, and all the morning 
Judy talked, although she was so tired, that 
her head felt light, and her eyes blurred, but 
Tommy was happy and she tried to forget 
about herself. 

She made him suck both of the lemons. 



IN A SILVER BOAT 


267 


“ I don’t want any,” she said, although her 
throat was so dry that she could hardly speak. 
“ I don’t want any.” 

“ Whew, but they are sour,” said Tommy, 
and made a wry face, but he did not insist 
upon her having one. 

That was the worst of it, the thirst, for 
there was no fresh water. 

“ Let’s explore,” said Tommy, as the 
afternoon waned and no relief came. “ Maybe 
we will find a house back there somewhere.” 

But Judy shook her head. “ No,” she said, 
“ we are on the end of the peninsula, betw een 
the bay and the ocean. It is just salt marshes 
from one end to the other, and no one lives 
on them. The best thing we can do is to hail 
a boat.” 

“ But there ain’t any boats.” 

“ There will be,” said Judy, stoutly. 
“ There are lots of little schooners that take 
fruit and vegetables to the markets. Not 
many of them come this way, but some of 
them do, and if we wait they will rescue us.” 

After that they saw several sails, and waved 
Tommy’s coat frantically, but no one re- 



268 


JUDY 


sponded. As the twilight darkened into the 
night, a steamer went by, her lights shining 
like jewels against the purple background — 
red and green and yellow. 

“If we only had a lantern,” groaned 
Judy, as Tommy shouted himself hoarse, 
and the steamer kept on her majestic way, 
leaving them hopelessly behind. 

“ Maybe some one will see us in the morn¬ 
ing.” Judy was trying to encourage Tommy, 
who had dropped down on the sand with his 
back to her, but not before she had seen his 
working face, and his knuckles rubbing his 
red eyes. 

“ I’m going to sleep,” he muttered, still 
with his face away from her, and with that he 
curled himself up against the big mound, as 
he had done the night before, and forgot his 
troubles. 

Judy lay on the sand watching the waves 
roll in, and thinking long thoughts. She 
thought of her father, living, perhaps, on 
some such lonely beach as this, but farther 
away from the haunts of men — alone, look¬ 
ing at the same stars, searching a vaster ex- 



IN A SILVER BOAT 


269 


panse for the ship that never came. She 
thought, too, of her mother, the gentle mother, 
whose guarding presence she seemed to feel 
in the wonderful stillness. She thought of 
their plans for her; that she might grow to 
gracious womanhood, following in the foot¬ 
steps of the women of her race, and here she 
was — a runaway, reckless little girl, away 
from home at midnight, chaperoned only by 
the wind and the waves, and with no roof 
above her but the sky! 

Under the solemn canopy of the night she 
made many resolves, cried a little, and lay 
there with her eyes shut, but not asleep, 
feeling very wicked, and very forlorn, and 
very, very hopeless. 

When she opened her eyes again, the night 
was glorious. The moon had risen, and its 
light made a silver pathway across the dark¬ 
ness of the waters, and sailing straight towards 
her, its sails set to the fair winds of heaven, 
came a little boat, dark against the shining 
background. 

Some one stood in the bow, straight and 
strong and young, and as Judy watched in a 



270 


JUDY 


half-dream, she remembered an opera she 
had seen once upon a time; where a knight 
in silver armor had come on the back of a 
silver swan to the lady he loved. She had 
hoped, mistily, that when she was old enough 
for such things, that Love might come to her 
like that — over the sea in silver armor, and 
sail away with her in a silver boat to the end 
of the world! 

The boat came nearer, the boat with the 
silver sails! She stood up to watch, and as 
her slim figure was etched sharply against the 
background of white sand, there came to her 
upon the wings of the night the cry — 

“ Judy!” 

Her hand went to her heart. Was it real ? 
Where did he come from, that youth in the 
silver boat. But even as she wondered, the 
cry went back to him, an answering cry, 
joyous, welcoming — 

“ Launcelot, oh, Launcelot.” 



CHAPTER XXIV 


“ HOME IS THE SAILOR FROM THE SEA” 

J UDY’S cry did not wake Tommy, and 
still in a half-dream she went down to the 
edge of the water and stood ghost-like 
in the moonlight, waiting. There was another 
figure in the boat, half-hidden by the shadowy 
sails, but it was Launcelot who, when the 
shallow water was reached, jumped out and 
waded to shore. 

“ Judy, Judy,” he said, as he came up to 
her, “ I knew I should find you.” 

She looked at him with wide eyes. “ Where 
— where did you come from,” she whispered, 
while her white hands fluttered across his coat 
sleeve as if to see that he was real. 

There was sympathy and tenderness in his 
boyish face, but seeing her condition, he spoke 
cheerfully. “ I came down to The Breakers 
after Tommy. His mother was ill, and his 

271 


272 


JUDY 


father had to stay with her, so they sent me. 
And when I got there I found Anne and — 
and — ” he checked himself hurriedly, “ I 
found Anne almost frantic because you had 
gone, and then when she found your note I 
started out, for I knew I should find you, 
Judy. I knew I should sail straight to you.” 

For one little moment as they stood to¬ 
gether in the moonlight, he looked down at 
her with the eyes of the lover he was to be, 
but as yet they were only boy and girl and 
the moment passed. 

“ Where’s Tommy ? 99 asked Launcelot, com¬ 
ing out of his dream. 

He was answered by a shout as Tommy 
came plunging over the sand. 

“ Why didn’t you wake me, Judy ? ” he 
complained, bitterly, “ when you first saw 
the boat.” 

“ Stop that,” commanded Launcelot. “ Why 
weren’t you keeping watch ? What kind of 
sailor do you call yourself, Tommy ? ” 

“ Oh, well,” Tommy excused, “ I was 
sleepy.” 

“ And so you let a girl watch,” was Launce- 




“ HOME IS THE SAILOR ” 


273 


lot’s hard way of putting it, and Tommy’s 
eyes shifted. 

“ Oh, well,” he began again. 

44 I made him let me watch, Launcelot,” 
Judy interrupted, feeling sorry for the small 
boy, 44 and I told him to go to sleep.” 

64 Oh, of course you did,” said Launcelot, 
shortly, 44 and of course he went, he’s a nice 
sort of sailor.” 

44 I’m not going to be a sailor,” Tommy 
announced, sulkily. 44 I’m going home — ” 

44 Right-o,” agreed Lancelot, 44 and the 
quicker the better.” 

“ Miss Judy,” came a sepulchral voice 
from the boat, 46 Miss Judy, we thought you 
were drownded.” 

44 Oh, Perkins,” cried Judy, 44 is that you, 
Perkins ? ” 

44 What’s left of me, Miss,” and Perkins’ 
bald head came into view as he stood up in 
the boat. 

Judy and Tommy climbed in, amid 
excited questions and explanations, which 
presently settled into a continuous mono¬ 
tone of complaint from Tommy. 44 I’m 


i 



274 


JUDY 


half-starved. Haven’t you anything to eat 
Perkins ? ” 

Now Tommy grated on Perkins’ nerves. 
The old butler had always been treated by the 
Jamesons with the gentle consideration due 
his age and long and faithful service, in the 
light of which Tommy’s dictation seemed 
nothing less than impertinent. 

And so it came about that Judy was served 
with good things first, while Tommy w T as made 
to w T ait. 

44 Oh, Perkins, can’t you hurry,” growled 
the small rude boy. 

And then Judy turned, on him. 44 You 
may be hungry, Tommy,” she blazed, 44 but 
don’t speak to Perkins that way again.” 

44 Oh, Miss,” deprecated Perkins, although 
in his old heart he was glad of her defense. 

44 Perkins has been out all night hunting 
for us,” Judy’s voice quivered, 44 and — 
and — he is just as tired as we are, Tommy 
Tolliver.” 

But Tommy had his sandwich, and bliss¬ 
fully munching it, cared little for Judy’s 
reproof. After he had finished he w T ent to 



" HOME IS THE SAILOR 99 


275 


sleep comfortably in the bottom of the boat, 
his troubles forgotten. 

There was about Launcelot and Perkins an 
air of subdued excitement that finally attracted 
Judy’s attention. 

“ What’s the matter with you all ? ” she 
asked, curiously, as she looked up suddenly 
from her pile of comfortable cushions, and 
caught Perkins smiling at Launcelot over her 
head. 

“ Oh, nothing, Miss, nothing at all,” 
coughed Perkins. 

44 Has anything happened P ” 

Launcelot, who was steering, smiled down 
at her. 

“ Miss Curiosity,” he teased. 

“ I’m not curious. I just want to know.” 

“ Oh, well, that’s one way to put it.” 

“ Tell me. Has anything happened ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What ? ” 

“ Something splendid.” 

Judy sat up. 44 Tell me,” she begged. 

But Launcelot was inflexible. 44 Not now,” 
and Judy sank back with a sigh, for she was 



276 


JUDY 


getting to know that when the big boy said a 
thing he meant it. 

“ When will I know P ” she asked after a 
while. 

“ When you get to The Breakers.” 

“ Oh.” 

She was silent for a little, then she said: 

“ I know you think it was awful for me to 
run away with Tommy — ” 

“ It would have been better if you had sent 
him home.” 

“ But I wanted to help him — he has such 
a hard time.” 

“ He would have a harder time if he went 
to sea, Judy. He isn’t like you, he doesn’t 
like the sea for its own sake. He has read a 
lot of stuff about sailors and adventures, and 
his head is full of it. He isn’t the kind that 
makes a brave man.” 

“ I know that,” said Judy, for the little 
voyage had proved Tommy and had found 
him wanting. 

“ He ought to stay at home and fight 
things out,” said Launcelot, “ as the rest of 
us have to.” 



“ HOME IS THE SAILOR 99 


277 


Judy looked up at him, surprised. “ Are 
you fighting things out ? ” she asked. 

“ Oh, yes. I want to go to college, and I 
can’t and that’s the end of it,” and Launcelot’s 
lips were set in a stern line. 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Father’s too sick for me to leave — I’ve 
got to run the farm,” was Launcelot’s simple 
statement of the bitter fact. 

“ I am always trying to do great things,” 
mourned Judy, with a sigh for the Cause of 
Thomas the Downtrodden, from which the 
romance seemed to have fled, “ but they just 
fizzle out.” 

“ Don’t be discouraged. You’ll learn to 
look before you leap yet, Judy,” and Launcelot 
laughed, his own troubles forgotten in his 
interest in hers. 

“ What are you going to take up for a 
life work ? ” asked Judy, remembering Rus- 
kin. 

“ I am going to be a lawyer,” announced 
Launcelot, promptly, “ and a good one like 
the Judge. My grandfather was a Judge, 
too, but father chose business, and failed 



278 


JUDY 


because he wasn’t fitted for it, and that’s 
why we are on the farm, now.” 

“I’m going to be an artist,” announced 
Judy, toploftically, “ and paint wonderful 
pictures.” 

But Launcelot looked at her doubtfully. 
“ I’ll bet you won’t,” he said with decision. 
“ I’ll bet you won’t paint pictures and be an 
artist.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Because you’ll get married, and — ” 

Judy shrugged an impatient shoulder. “ I 
am never going to marry,” she declared. 

“ Why not?” 

“ Because I want my own way,” said 
wilful Judy. 

“ Oh,” said “ bossy ” Launcelot. 

The waves were twinkling in the gold of the 
morning sun when the tired party sighted the 
beach below The Breakers. 

Judy standing up in the boat with her dark 
hair blowing around her spied a little waiting 
group. 

4 There’s Anne — dear Anne — and, why, 
Launcelot, there’s a dog.” 




" HOME IS THE SAILOR 99 


279 


“ Is there ? 55 

“ Yes, and — and — a man — ” 

“ Yes.” Launcelot’s voice was calm, but his 
hand on the tiller trembled. 

She turned on him her startled eyes. “ Do 
you know who it is ? she demanded. 

“ Yes.” 

" Who ? ” 

“ Look and see.” 

The man on the beach was gazing 
straight out across the bay, and in the 
clearness of the morning air, Judy made out 
his features, the pale dark face, the waving 
hair. 

She clutched Launcelot’s arm. “ Who is 
it ? ” she demanded, looking as if she had seen 
a spirit. “ Who is it, Launcelot ? ” 

And then Launcelot gave a shout that woke 
Tommy. 

“ It’s, oh, who do you think it is, Judy 
Jameson ? ” 

And Judy whispered with a white face, 
“ It looks like — my father. Is it really — 
my father — Launcelot ? ” and Launcelot let 
the tiller go, and caught hold of her hands, 



280 


JUDY 


and said: “ It really is, it really and truly is, 
Judy Jameson.” 

Judy never knew how the boat reached the 
wharf, nor how she came to be in her father’s 
arms. But she knew that she should never be 
happier this side of heaven than she was 
when he held her close and murmured in 
her ear, “ My own daughter, my own dear 
little girl.” 

It was an excited group that circled around 
them — Perkins and Launcelot, and the dog, 
Terry, and last but not least, Anne, red-eyed 
and dishevelled. 

“ Oh, Judy, Judy,” she sobbed, when at 
last Judy came down to earth and beamed on 
her. “ We thought you were drowned, and I 
have cried all night.” 

And at that Judy cried, too, and they sat 
down on the sand and had a little w T eep 
together, comfortably, as girls will, when the 
danger is over and every one is safe and happy. 

“ Pm all right,” gasped Judy at last, 
mopping her eyes with a clean handkerchief, 
offered her by the ever-useful Perkins. “ I’m 
all right — but — but — Anne was such a 



“ HOME IS THE SAILOR ” 


281 


goosie, — and I am so happy — ” And with 
that she dropped her head on Anne’s shoulder 
again and cried harder than ever. 

“ Dear heart, don’t cry,” begged the 
Captain. 

“ She is tired to death,” explainedLauncelot. 

“ She needs her breakfast, sir,” suggested 
Perkins. 

“ So do I,” grumbled Tommy Tolliver, 
who stood in the background feeling very 
much left out. 

But even as they spoke, Judy slipped into 
her father’s arms again, and lay there quietly, 
as she murmured, so that no one else heard: 

“ ‘ Home is the sailor from the sea’ — oh, 
father, father, I knew you would come back 
to me — I knew you would come back some 
day.” 



% 


CHAPTER XXV 

LAUNCELOT BUYS A COW 

N EVER had Fairfax seen so many 
interesting arrivals as during that 
second week in August. 

On Monday came Dr. Grennell, mysterious 
and smiling; on Tuesday, Judge Jameson, 
pale but radiant; on Wednesday, Tommy 
and Launcelot, bursting with important news; 
on Thursday, Captain Jameson, with a joyful 
dark maiden on one side of him, and a joyful 
fair maiden on the other; on Friday, Perkins, 
beaming with the baggage, and on Saturday, 
the Terry-dog, resignedly, in a crate. 

And every one, except Terry, the dog, had 
a story to tell, and the story was one that was 
to become a classic in the annals of Fairfax. 
How Captain Jameson had been washed 
overboard in southern seas, how he had been 

rescued by natives and had lived among them; 

282 


LAUNCELOT BUYS A COW 


283 


how he had been found by a party searching 
for gold; how he had started with them for 
home, had become ill as soon as they put to 
sea, and because of his illness had been the 
only one left when the ship caught on fire; 
how the fire had gone out, and he had floated 
on the deserted vessel until picked up by a 
fishing-boat, and how he had been brought to 
Newfoundland and how Dr. Grennell had 
discovered him by means of the Spanish 
coins. 

But in the eyes of the children of Fairfax 
his adventures paled before those of Tommy 
Tolliver. To a gaping audience that small 
boy talked of the things he had done — of 
shipwrecks, of desert islands, of hunger and 
thirst until the little girls gazed at him with 
tears in their eyes, although the effect was 
somewhat spoiled by Jimmie Jones’ artless 
remark, “ But you were only away four days, 
Tommy! ” 

All Fairfax rejoiced with the Judge and 
Judy, but only little Anne knew what Judy 
really felt, for in the first moment that they 
were alone together after that eventful morn- 



284 


JUDY 


ing at The Breakers, Judy, with her eyes 
shining like stars, had thrown her arms around 
the neck of her fair little friend, and had 
whispered, “ Oh, Anne, Anne , I don’t deserve 
such happiness, but I am so thankful that I 
feel as if I should be good for the rest of my 
life.” 

And no one but Anne knew why Judy put 
everything aside to be with her father, to 
anticipate every desire of his, to cheer every 
solitary minute. 

“ I must try to take mother’s place,” she 
confided to her sympathetic listener in the 
watches of the night. “ He misses her so — 
Anne.” 

Anne went back to the little gray house, 
where the plums were purple on the tree in 
the orchard, and where Becky on her lookout 
limb was hidden by the thickness of the 
foliage. The robins were gone, and so w^as 
Belinda’s occupation, but she had more im¬ 
portant things on hand, and after the first 
joy of greetings, the little grandmother led 
Anne to a cozy corner of the little kitchen, 
where in a big basket, Belinda sang lullabies 



LAUNCELOT BUYS A COW 


28 5 


to four happy, sleepy balls of down as white 
as herself. 

“ Oh, the dear little pussy cats,” gurgled 
Anne, as Belinda welcomed her w T ith a gratified 
“ Purr-up,” “ what does Becky think of 
them, grandmother ? ” 

“ She takes care of them when Belinda 
goes out,” said the little grandmother. “ It’s 
too funny to see them cuddle under her black 
wings.” 

“ I wonder if she will make friends with 
Terry, Judy’s dog,” chatted Anne, as she 
cuddled the precious kittens. “ He’s the 
dearest thing, and he took to Judy right 
away, and follows her around all the 
time.” 

The little grandmother sat down in an old 
rocker with a red cushion and took off her 
spectacles with trembling hands. “ Belinda 
will have to get used to him, I guess,” she 
said. 

“ Of course,” said Anne, not looking up, 
“ Judy will bring him here when she comes.” 

“ I don’t mean that,” said the little grand¬ 
mother. 



286 


JUDY 


Something in the old voice made Anne 
look up. 

“ What’s the matter, little grandmother ? ” 
she asked, anxiously. 

“ I mean that we are going to leave the little 
gray house, Anne, you and I and Belinda 
and Becky,” and with that the little grand¬ 
mother put on her spectacles again, to see 
how Anne took the news. 

Anne stared. “ Leave the little gray house,” 
she said, slowly. “ Why what do you mean, 
grandmother ? ” 

“ We are going to live at the Judge’s,” 
and at that Anne’s face changed from dismay 
to happiness, and she turned the kittens over 
to Belinda and flung her arms around the 
little old lady’s neck. 

“ Oh, am I really going to live with Judy ? ” 
she shrieked joyfully, “ and you and Becky 
and Belinda — oh, it’s too good to be true.” 

“ We really are,” said Mrs. Batcheller. 
“ The Judge and I had a long talk together, 
the day he came down, and he wants you to 
go away to school with Judy, and have me 
come and help Aunt Patterson to manage 



LAUNCELOT BUYS A COW 


287 


his house. He says she is too feeble for so 
much care and that it will be an accommoda¬ 
tion to him.” 

But Mrs. Batcheller did not tell how the 
Judge had argued for hours to break down 
the barriers of pride which she had raised, 
and that he had finally won, because of his 
insistence that Anne must have the oppor¬ 
tunities due one of her name and race. 

“ You are to go to Mrs. French’s school in 
Richmond, with Judy. She is a gentlewoman, 
a Southerner, and an old friend of the Judge’s 
and mine, and we think it will be exactly the 
place for you two for a time.” 

“ It will be lovely,” cried little Anne, as 
the plans for her future were unfolded, but 
late that evening when she was ready to say 
“ good night ” she stood for a moment with 
her cheek against her grandmother’s soft old 
one. 

“ I shall miss you and the little gray house, 
grandmother,” she whispered, “ I was hungry 
for you at The Breakers, although it w’as 
lovely there, and every one was so kind.” 

“ I shall miss you too, dear heart,” said 



288 


JUDY 


the little grandmother, but she did not say 
how much, for she wanted Anne to go away 
happily, and she felt that she must not be 
selfish. 

It was wonderful the planning that went on 
after that. Anne spent many days at the big 
house in Fairfax, and each time she went it 
was a tenderer, dearer Judy that welcomed 
her. 

“ Father will stay with grandfather this 
winter. I begged to stay, too, but they both 
think the schools here are not what I need, 
and so I am to go away,” she explained one 
morning as she and Anne were getting ready 
to go with a party of young people to pick 
goldenrod. 

“ Yes,” said Anne, putting her red reefer 
over her white dress, and admiring the effect. 

“ I hate school,” began Judy, sticking 
in a hat-pin viciously, then she stopped and 
laughed, “ No, I don’t, either. I don’t hate 
anything since father came back.” 

“ Not even cats ? ” asked Anne, demurely* 

“ No. You know I love Belinda.” 

“Nor picnics ? ” 



LAUNCELOT BUYS A COW 


289 


“ Not Fairfax ones.” 

“ Nor books ? ” 

“ I just love ’em — thanks to you.” 

“ Nor — nor boys — ? ” mischievously. 

“ Oh, do stop your questions,” and Judy 
put her hands over her ears. But Anne 
persisted, “ Nor boys, Judy ? ” 

“ I like Launcelot Bart — and — little Jim¬ 
mie Jones, but I am not sure about Tommy 
Tolliver, Anne.” 

And then they both laughed light-heartedly, 
and tripped down-stairs to find Amelia and 
Nannie and Tommy waiting for them. 

“ Launcelot couldn’t come,” explained 
Tommy. “ He had to go to Upper Fairfax, 
and he said he was awfully sorry, but he 
didn’t dare to take so much time away from 
the farm.” 

“ Poor fellow,” sighed tender-hearted little 
Anne. “ He is always so busy.” 

“ I don’t think he is to be pitied,” said 
Judy, w T ith a scornful glance at Tommy. “ He 
has work to do and he does it, which is more 
than most people do.” 

There was gold in the sunshine, and gold 




290 


JUDY 


in the changing leaves, and gold in the ripened 
grain in the fields, and gold in the goldenrod 
which they had come to pick. 

Tommy gathered great armfuls of the 
feathery bloom, and the girls made it into 
bunches, while Terry, who had come with 
them, whuffed at the chipmunks on the gray 
fence-rails. 

“ What do you want it for ? ” asked Tommy, 
sitting down beside the busy maidens and 
wiping his warm forehead. 

“ To-morrow is Judy’s birthday,” said 
Anne, “ and we are going to decorate the 
house.” 

“ Oh, is it ? asked Amelia and Nannie 
together. 

“ Yes,” said Judy, “ and I want you to come 
to dinner and spend the evening with us. I 
am not going to have a party, because father 
isn’t feeling as if he wanted to join in any 
gay things yet, but we can have a nice time 
together, and it may be the last before Anne 
and I go away to school.” 

“ Go where? ” gasped Nannie and Amelia 
and Tommy. 



LAUNCELOT BUYS A COW 


291 


Judy explained. “We leave the first week 
in September/’ she ended. 

“ Oh, oh,” cried the stricken three, “ what 
shall we do. All winter — and we can’t have 
any fun — if Anne isn’t here, nor you, Judy, 
and we had planned so many things.” 

“ Will you really miss me? ” Judy asked a 
little wistfully, and at that Nannie’s hand was 
laid on hers, as the little girl murmured, “ We 
shall miss you awf’ly, Judy,” while Amelia 
sighed a great, gusty sigh, as she said, “ Oh, 
dear, now everything’s spoiled ! ” 

“ Do you want me to come to your birth¬ 
day dinner, too ? ” asked Tommy, anxiously, 
when the first shock of the coming separation 
was over, “ or ain’t you goin’ to have any boys.” 

“ Yes, I want you and Launcelot,” said 
Judy, who had debated the question of being 
friendly with Tommy, for he hadn’t seemed 
worth it, but Anne had pleaded for him. “ He 
really means well, Judy,” she had protested, 
“ and I think he is going to turn over a new 
leaf.” 

“ Well, I hope he will,” said Judy, and 
forgave him. 



292 


JUDY 


When the big gate was reached, Nannie 
and Amelia and Tommy went on, and as 
Judy and Anne went into the old garden, they 
found the Judge and the Captain, both still 
semi-invalids, sitting there, amid a riot of late 
summer blossoms. 

As he greeted them, Captain Jameson’s 
eyes went from the rosy, fair face of little 
Anne to the pale but happy one of his daughter. 
“ Father is right,” he thought, “ Anne does 
her good.” 

“ Isn’t it lovely here,” said Judy, dropping 
her great golden bunch with a sigh as she sat 
down on the bench under the lilac bush. “ It’s 
so cool.” 

“ What a lot of goldenrod,” said the 
Judge. “Aren’t you tired ? ” 

“ A little,” said Judy, as she took off her 
hat. 

“ Launcelot couldn’t go,” Anne started to 
explain, when Terry, who had been inves¬ 
tigating the hedge, barked. 

“ What’s the matter with him ? ” asked 
Judy, as the small dog growled in what 
might be called a perfunctory fashion, for he 



LAUNCELOT BUYS A COW 


293 


was so good natured that he was in a chronic 
state of being at peace with the world. 

She went to the gate and looked over. 

“ Why, it’s a cow,” she cried, “ a beautiful 
little brown-eyed cow.” 

Terry barked again, and then a voice out¬ 
side the hedge said: “ Yes, and I’ve just 
bought her.” 

“ Launcelot,” screamed both of the girls, 
delightedly, and opened the gate wide. 



CHAPTER XXVI 


JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL 


\OWN, Terry,” commanded the Cap- 
1 tain, as the little dog went for the 
mild-eyed cow, but the mild-eyed 
cow seemed perfectly able to take care of 
herself, and as she lowered her horns, Terry 
retired discreetly to a safe place between the 
Captain’s knees, where he wagged an ingra¬ 
tiating tail. 

Launcelot and the cow stood framed in the 
rose-covered gateway. 

“ Yes, I’ve bought a cow,” explained the 
big boy, who was dusty but cheerful, “ and 
we are going to have our own butter and 
milk, and if there is any over, I’ll sell it.” 

“You have my order now,” said the 
Judge, handsomely. 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Launcelot, and 
Anne cried: 


294 


JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL 295 


“ Oh, Launcelot, make it in little pats 
stamped with a violet, and label it, ‘ From 
the Violet Farm.’ ” 

“ That’s not a bad idea,” commended the 
Captain, “ novelties like that take, and if the 
butter is good, you may get a market for more 
than you can make.” 

“ Then I will get another cow and enlarge 
my hothouse, and between the butter and the 
violets I guess I can bring up my college 
fund,” and Launcelot looked so hopeful that 
they all smiled in sympathy. 

“ Where did you get her ? ” asked Judy, 
as she patted the pretty creature on the head. 

“ I bought her a mile or so out in the 
country, and I tell you I hated to take her after 
I had paid the money.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Anne. 

“ Oh, they were so poor, and the cow was 
the only thing they had. There is a widow, 
named McSwiggins, with six children, and I 
guess they have had a pretty hard time, and 
now their taxes are due and the interest and 
two of them have had the typhoid fever, and 
are just skin and bone, and they had to sell 



296 


JUDY 


the cow, and they cried, and I felt like a thief 
when I carried her off.” 

44 Oh, poor things,” cried Judy, when 
Launcelot finished his breathless recital, 44 poor 
things.” 

44 I didn’t want to take her, after I found 
out, but Mrs. McSwiggins said that they 
needed the money awfully, and that I was 
doing them a favor — only it was hard, and 
then she cried and the children all cried, too.” 

44 Why haven’t they told some one before 
this P ” asked the Judge, wiping his eyes. 

44 1 guess the mother is too proud. They 
are from the South and they haven’t been in 
this neighborhood long, and she don’t know 
any one.” 

44 What’s the cow’s name ? ” asked Anne, 
whose eyes were like dewy forget-me-nots. 

44 Sweetheart. The biggest girl named her, 
and when I went out of the gate she just sat 
down on the step and looked after us, and her 
eyes hurt me, they were so sad.” 

The little cow moved restlessly. 44 1 guess 
I’ll have to go,” sighed Launcelot, standing 
like a Peri outside the gates of Paradise, and 



JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL 297 


contrasting the coolness and quiet of the old 
garden with the heat and dust of the long 
white road. 44 I guess I’ll have to take Sweet¬ 
heart on.” 

But just then down the path came Perkins, 
dignified in white linen, and in his hand he 
bore a tray on which a glass pitcher, misty 
with coolness and showing ravishing glimpses 
of lemon peel and ice, promised delicious 
refreshment. 

44 You come and have some lemonade, Mr. 
Launcelot,” said Perkins, as he set the tray 
on the table, 44 I’ll hold the cow.” 

And, as they all insisted, Launcelot came in, 
and Perkins went without the gate. 

But, alas, Sweetheart was a cow of many 
moods, and as the gay little party in the garden 
sipped the cooling drink in the shade of the 
trees, the little cow, growing restive out there 
in the sun with the flies worrying her, suddenly 
ducked her head and ran. 

And after her, still holding the rope, went 
the immaculate Perkins, to be dragged hither 
and thither by her erratic movements, while 
he shouted desperately, 44 Whoa.” 



298 


JUDY 


And after Perkins went the excited Terry- 
dog, and after Terry went Launcelot, and after 
Launcelot went Judy, and then Anne, and 
then far in the rear, the Judge, while Captain 
Jameson, too weak to run, stood at the gate 
and watched. 

It was a brave race. Perkins had grit and 
he would not let go of the rope, and Sweetheart 
wanted to go home and she would not stop 
running, and so the procession went up the 
dusty road and down a dusty hill, and then 
up another dusty hill, and down a cool green 
bank, where seeing ahead of her a murmuring 
limpid stream, Sweetheart dashed into it, stood 
still, and placidly drank in long sighing 
gulps. 

Perkins went in after her, and was rescued 
by Launcelot, while Judy and Anne stood on 
the bank and laughed until the tears ran down 
their cheeks. 

Perkins laughed, too, as he emerged wet 
and dripping, but beaming. 

“ I didn’t let her go,” he chuckled, a little 
proud of his agility in his old age, and Launcelot 
said admiringly, “ I didn’t think you had it 



JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL 299 


in you, Perkins,” and at that Perkins chuckled 
more than ever. 

They went back in a triumphal procession, 
and then Lancelot took Sweetheart away with 
him, and the little girls went up-stairs to 
dress. 

The Captain and the Judge were left alone, 
and presently the former said: 

“ Why can’t we put Launcelot through col¬ 
lege, father ? It’s a shame he should have to 
work so hard.” 

But the Judge shook his head. 44 He is 
having something better than college, Philip,” 
he said. “ He is learning self-reliance and he 
will get to college if he keeps on like this 
and be better for the struggle. I’ve told 
Grennell a half-dozen times that I would put 
up the money, for I like the boy — but there 
is one very good reason why we can’t pay his 
way.” 

“ What’s that ? ” asked the Captain, with 
interest. 

“ He won’t take a cent from anybody,” 
said the Judge, 44 and I like his independence.” 

“ So do I,” said the Captain, heartily, 44 but 



300 


JUDY 


we will keep an eye on him, father, and help 
him out when we can.” 

An hour later as the Captain sat alone 
under the lilac bush, Judy came down with 
white ruffles a-flutter and with her brown 
locks beautifully combed and sat beside 
him. 

“ To-morrow is my birthday,” she said, 
superfluously. 

“ My big girl,” smiled the Captain, “ you 
make me feel old, Judy mine.” 

She smiled back, abstractedly. “ Are — 
are you going to give me a present, father ? ” 
she stammered. 

It w^as a queer question, and the Captain 
w-as not sure that he liked it. Birthday 
presents w T ere not to be talked about before¬ 
hand. 

“ Of course I am,” he said, finally. “ Why ? ” 

“Will it- - cost — as much as — Launce- 
lot’s cow? ” asked Judy, still blushing. 

“ As Launcelot’s cow ? ” 

He stared at her. “ Why do you want to 
know ? ” he asked. 

“ Well,” she patted his coat collar, coax- 




JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL 301 


ingly, “ I want you to give me the money, 
and let me buy back the McSwiggins 
cow.” 

“ I’ll buy it myself.” 

But she shook her head. “ No, I want to 
give it myself. I feel — so — so — thankful, 
father, for my happiness, that I want to 
do something for somebody else, who isn’t 
happy.” 

He put his hand under her chin and turned 
her face with its earnest eyes up to him. “You 
are sure you would rather have that than 
any other birthday present, Judy mine ? ” he 
asked, thinking how much she looked like her 
mother. 

“ I am very sure, father.” 

They sent for Launcelot that evening, and 
he entered into the plan with enthusiasm. 
“I can get another cow,” he said, “and if 
they have the money and the cow both they 
will get along all right.” 

“ I don’t want them to know who gives it,” 
said Judy. “ I hate that way of giving. I 
don’t want to go and stare at them and talk 
to them about their poverty. I think it would 



302 


JUDY 


be nice to tie a note to Sweetheart’s horns and 
just leave her there.” 

The next day about noon, a mysterious 
party, with a strange and unusual looking cow 
in their midst, crept to the back of the Mc- 
Swiggins barn. Sweetheart lowed softly, as 
she recognized the familiar surroundings. 

“ Gracious, I hope they won’t hear,” said 
little Anne, “ that would spoil it all.” 

Perkins set a heavy basket down and wiped 
his forehead. 

“You go and look, Mr. Launcelot,” he 
said, “ and if there ain’t any one around 
you tie her to the hitching-post, and then 
bring the ends of those pink ribbons back with 
you.” 

When that was accomplished, the Myste¬ 
rious Four hid themselves in some bushes 
by the side of the road to await develop¬ 
ments. 

Presently Johnny McSwiggins, trailing list¬ 
lessly towards the barn, gave one look and 
rushed back into the house. 

“ They’s somethin’ out thar,” he said, 
with his eyes bulging. 



JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL 303 


Mary MeSwiggins, the oldest girl, looked 
at him hopelessly. “ I don’ care ef they is. 
We alls too po’ fer anythin’ to hurt.” 

“ But hit looks lak Sweetheart’s ghos’,” 
declared Johnny, “ an’ hit’s got pink ribbin 
on. I declar’ hit look lak Sweetheart’s ghos’, 
Sistuh May.” 

At that beloved name, Mary rushed out, 
while the family trailed behind, Mrs. Me¬ 
Swiggins bringing up the rear with the wan 
baby in her arms. 

Tied to the post was Sweetheart, but such 
a cow had never been seen before in the 
history of Fairfax, for Judy was nothing if not 
original, and with the help of Anne and 
Launcelot she had decked the little cow 
gorgeously. 

Around her neck was a huge wreath of 
roses, pink ribbons w T ere tied to her horns, 
and two long pink streamers like reins went 
over her back and across the path and around 
the barn, where the ends were hidden. 

“ Gee,” said Johnny MeSwiggins, but the 
rest of them w T ere silent, gazing at this trans¬ 
formed and glorified Sweetheart, while Mary 



304 


JUDY 


laid her head against the sleek neck and 
murmured love names to her dear little cow. 

“ They’s somethin’ at the end of them 
ribbins,” said Mrs. McSwiggins, after awhile, 
“ you all go an’ look.” 

And when they looked they found two huge 
baskets, one filled with wonderful things all 
ready to eat (Perkins had packed that), and 
the other filled with fruits and vegetables 
(Launcelot had raised them), and on top of 
one basket was a box of candy (Anne sat up 
to make it), and on the other a package of 
raisin cookies (from the little grandmother). 

The little McSwiggins squealed and gurgled 
with delight, and then ate as only people can 
who have seen the gaunt wolf of starvation at 
the door, and as they ate they asked the 
question unceasingly: 

“ Who sent it ? ” 

“ They’s a letter tied to her horn,” volun¬ 
teered Johnny McSwiggins after he had de¬ 
voured two cookies and three sandwiches and 
a chicken leg. “ I seen it.” 

They found it under the roses, and when 
they opened it, there dropped out two yellow- 



JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL 305 


backed bills (from the Judge and the Cap¬ 
tain), and a note (and that was from Judy), 
and the note said: 

“ I waved my wand and commanded that 
Sweetheart be brought back to you. Also 
these other gifts. If you wish to keep them, 
and to keep my favor, you must never ask 
whence they came. 

“ Your guardian fairy, 

“ JlJANNLOT.” 

Then all the little McSwiggins stared, and 
the littlest McSwiggins — except the baby, 
asked, “Was it really a fairy, mother?” 
and Mrs. McSwiggins wiped her eyes and 
sobbed, “ I reckon it was, honey,” but Mary 
McSwiggins with her eyes shining as they had 
never shone before in her sad little life said 
softly to her mother, “ I’ll bet it was them 
girls and that Bart boy. I’ll bet it was — ” 

“ What girls ? ” asked Mrs. McSwiggins. 

“ Them girls down at the Judge’s in the 
big house. They wears white dresses, and 
one’s got yaller hair and the other’s got brown, 
and I was bellin’ the fence yustiddy when 



306 


JUDY 


they was pickin’ flowers, and that’s how I 
foun’ out they names — the dark one’s Judy, 
and the light one’s Anne — and the boy’s 
named Launcelot. And that’s how they got 
that fairy name — you look here,” and she 
held up the note to her mother, “ 4 Ju — ann 
— lot’ — it’s jes’ them names strung together.” 

44 Well, now,” said Mrs. McSwiggins, 44 if 
that ain’ bright, honey. But I don’t know’s 
we ought to take all them things.” 

44 Sweetheart ain’t goin’ away from yer no 
more,” said Mary, firmly, 44 and they’d feel 
mighty bad if we didn’t take the other things.” 

44 Well, mebbe they would,” said Mrs. 
McSwiggins, 4 4 and anyhow they’s saved us 
from the po’house, and that’s a fact, Mary, 
and don’ you forgit it when you say yo’ 
prayers.” 

Far down the road the Mysterious Four 
gloated over their success. 

44 Wasn’t it fun ? ” gasped Anne. 

44 Here’s to the fairy Juannlot,” cried 
Launcelot. 

44 May she never cease to do good,” cried 
Judy, beaming on her fellow conspirators. 



JUDY PLAYS LADY BOUNTIFUL 307 


But Perkins merely nodded approval. For 
had not all the good ladies of the house of 
Jameson played the role of Lady Bountiful, 
and was not Judy thus proving herself worthy 
of their name and fame ? 



CHAPTER XXVII 

THE SUMMER ENDS 

I N the softened light of the candles, the big 
mirrors reflected that night four misty 
groups of happy people. 

A blur of pink down at one end, w T as Anne 
in rosy organdie, playing games with Tommy 
and Amelia and Nannie; a little fire flickered 
in the open grate, for the evening was cool, 
and one side of it sat the little grandmother 
and her old friend, the Judge, and on the 
other Dr. Grennell and Captain Jameson, 
engaged in an animated discussion; while 
in the window-seat, Judy and Launcelot gazed 
out upon the old garden. 

“ I shall miss it awfully,” said Judy, with 
a little sigh. 

Launcelot turned on her a startled glance. 

“ Why ? ” he asked, “ where are you go¬ 
ing ? ” 


308 


THE SUMMER ENDS 


309 


“ Away to school,” said Judy, “ didn’t 
Anne tell you ? ” 

“ Oh, I say — oh, I say, you’re not, really ? ” 

Launcelot’s voice had a queer break in it, 
that made Judy say quickly: 

“ We are coming back for Christmas.” 

“ Well, this is my finish,” said Launcelot, 
moved to slang, by the intensity of his feelings. 
“ I thought it was bad enough to be cut out 
of going to college, but if you and Anne go 
away, I will give up.” 

“ No, you won’t,” said Judy, quickly. 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Because I should be so disappointed in 
you, Launcelot.” 

For a moment they looked at each other 
in silence. The light wind came in through 
the open window and stirred the laces of 
Judy’s dress, and blew a wisp of dark hair 
across her earnest eyes, which shone with 
a depth of feeling that Launcelot had never 
seen there before, and as he looked, the boy 
was suddenly possessed with the spirit that 
animated the knights of old who yearned to 
prove themselves worthy of their ladies. 





810 


JUDY 


“ Would you be disappointed, Judy? ” he 
asked, very low, 

“ Yes,” she leaned forward, speaking ea¬ 
gerly. “ You — you don’t know what this 
summer has meant to me, Launcelot. I came 
here so miserable, so unhappy, and I found 
you and Anne — and because you were both 
so brave when you have so many things to 
make life hard, I think it made me a little 
braver, and I could bear things better, because 
of you, and Anne, Launcelot. 

“ And so — I want always to think of you 
as brave,” she went on, “ I w^ant to feel 
though there are cowards in the world, 
that you aren’t one; though there are boys 
who fail and boys who are not what they 
ought to be, that you are really brave and 
true and good, Launcelot — always brave and 
true and good — ” 

For a moment he could not speak, and then 
he said in a moved voice: 

“ Do you really think that, Judy ? ” 

“ Really, Launcelot.” 

“ It helps me to know it — it will help me 
all my life,” he said, simply, and for a, 



THE SUMMER ENDS 


s n 


moment his hand touched hers, as if a promise 
were given and taken. 

All his life he carried the picture of her as 
she sat there with the silver light of the moon 
making a halo for her head — and though 
after that she was many times her old tem¬ 
pestuous self, yet the vision of little St. Judith, 
as he named her then, stayed with him, and 
led him to the heights. 

Judy went out to dinner on Dr. Grennell’s 
arm. She looked very grown up with her 
long white dress, with her hair twisted high, 
with pearl sidecombs that had belonged to 
her grandmother, and with a bunch of violets— 
Launcelot’s birthday gift to her, in her belt. 

“ How old are you, little lady ? ” asked the 
doctor, as they took their seats at the table. 

“ As old as I look,” flashing a demure 
glance. 

“ Then you are ten,” he decided, “ in 
spite of your hair on top of your head. Your 
eyes give you away. They are child-eyes.” 

“ 1 hope she will always keep child-eyes,” 
said the Judge, who at the head of the table 
was serving the soup from an old-fashioned 



312 


JUDY 


silver tureen, with Perkins at his elbow to 
pass the plates. “ I don’t want her to grow 
up. 

“ I shall always be your little girl, grand¬ 
father,” and Judy nodded happily to him 
from the foot of the table, where she was 
taking Aunt Patterson’s place, “ even when 
I am forty.” 

“ Aw, forty,” said Tommy Tolliver, un¬ 
expectedly, “ that’s awful old. You’ll be an 
old maid, Judy.” 

“ That’s what I intend to be,” said that 
independent young lady. “ I am going to 
be an artist.” 

“ Oh, Judy,” said little Anne, “ you know 
you won’t. You will marry Prince Charming 
and live happy ever after, as the fairy books 
say, and it will be lovely.” 

But Judy shrugged her shoulders, as they 
all laughed. 

“ We will see,” she said, “ and anyhow 
I am too young to think about such things,” 
and at that the little grandmother nodded 
approval. 

Tommy, having made his one contribution 



THE SUMMER ENDS 


313 


to the general conversation, ate steadily through 
the menu, accompanied by Amelia, whose 
sigh when the last course of ice-cream was 
served in little melons with candied cherries 
on top was expressive of great bliss. 

But the crowning surprise of the dinner 
was the birthday cake. 

Perkins brought it in on a great silver platter, 
and placed it in front of Judy with a flourish. 

“ Oh, oh, isn’t it lovely/’ cried all the little 
girls. 

“ That’s great,” from Launcelot and 
Tommy. 

“ Perkins’ chef d’ceuvre ,” was the Captain’s 
comment, and the Judge and the doctor and 
Mrs. Batcheller added their praises. 

It really was a beautiful cake. The icing 
foamed up all over it like waves, and on the 
very top of the sugary billows was placed a 
little candy sailboat, as nearly like the lost 
“ Princess ” as Perkins could procure. 

“ Oh, how perfectly beautiful,” said Judy. 
“ How did you think of it, Perkins ? ” and she 
smiled at him in a way that set his old heart 
a-beating. 



314 


JUDY 


44 You’re to cut it, Miss,” he said, handing 
her a great silver-handled knife. 44 There’s a 
ring in it, and a thimble and a piece of money.” 

44 Oh, I hope I’ll get the ring,” said little 
Anne, then blushed as Perkins said: 44 That 
means you’ll get married, Miss.” 

44 And the one who gets the thimble will 
work for a living, and the one who gets the 
money will be rich, isn’t that it P ” asked 
Judy, as she stuck the knife in. 44 Oh, it 
seems a shame to cut it, Perkins. It is so 
pretty.” 

Launcelot found the thimble in his slice, 
the money — a tiny gold dollar — was in 
Nannie’s, while to Judy came the turquoise 
ring. 

44 You see you can’t escape,” said Launce¬ 
lot, softly, as she turned the blue hoop on her 
finger. 44 Fate doesn’t intend you for an 
artist.” 

44 Well, I intend to be, whether fate does or 
not,” she insisted. 44 I guess I can do as I 
please.” 

44 Anne, you can have the thimble,” said 
Launcelot, rolling it across the table-cloth to 




THE SUMMER ENDS 


315 


her. It was a beautiful little gold affair, and 
she loved to sew. 

“ I shouldn’t mind being an old maid and 
working for a living,” she said, surveying 
it contentedly, 44 if I could have Becky and 
Belinda to live with me.” 

44 I’m glad I am going to be rich,” said 
Nannie. 44 I shall travel and have a new 
dress every week.” 

44 Huh,” boasted Tommy, “ I am going to 
get rich, if I didn’t find the money in the 
cake.” 

44 Sailors don’t get rich,” said the Captain. 
44 It’s a poor profession.” 

44 Aw, a sailor,” stammered Tommy, get¬ 
ting very red, 44 I’m not going to be a sailor. 
I’m going to learn typewriting, and go to the 
city in an office.” 

And thus ended the Cause of Thomas, the 
Downtrodden! 

But Amelia’s plans proved the most in¬ 
teresting. 

44 I’m going to write,” she announced, 
placidly. “ I wrote a poem for Judy’s birth¬ 
day.” 



316 


JUDY 


“ Read it,” they demanded, and Amelia, 
feeling very important, delivered the following: 

“ Oh, candy, oh, sugar, oh, cake, and oh, pie, 

Are not half so sweet as dear J-U-D-Y.” 

It brought down the house, and Amelia 
was overcome by the honors heaped upon her. 

“ It isn’t very good poetry,” she confessed 
modestly, “ but it means a lot.” 

And then the Captain made a little speech, 
in which he thanked Judy’s friends for the 
happy summer she had spent among them. 
And then Launcelot made a speech and thanked 
Judy for the good times she had given them. 
And while Launcelot’s speech wasn’t as polished 
as the Captain’s, it was so earnestly spoken 
that Judy was proud of her boy friend. 

And after that they filed out to the old 
garden, the Judge and Mrs. Batcheller, and 
the Captain and Judy, Launcelot with his 
fair little friend Anne, and behind them the 
smaller fry, and Perkins — the wonderful 
Perkins at the end, with the coffee. 

And there we will leave them, there in the 
old garden, where Judy had found hope and 






THE SUMMER ENDS 


317 


happiness, and where the little fountain sang 
ceaselessly to the nodding roses, of life and 
love, and of the things that had been and of 
the things that were to be. 


THE END. 


















































































































